


A Taste of Honey

by villain-synonymous (a_silver_story)



Category: Hollyoaks
Genre: Drugs, M/M, Prison, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:17:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_silver_story/pseuds/villain-synonymous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Brendan's imprisonment. Ste struggles to deal with Brendan's absence, then is unexpectedly gifted with a rather unfortunate reunion, via a stint in prison. As their time together once again draws to a close, they both begin to realise that a taste of honey is indescribably worse than none at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. #1

The first time it had happened, it had been no more than an accident. Ste had been drunk – not unusually so – and had stumbled into the little dining table in the living area of the flat. The whiskey tumbler had cracked and broken into two pieces beneath his hand, and the sharp bite of the jagged edge drew blood from his palm.

Ste had stared at the redness of it; the shiny pool on the table top, and the way it would quiver slightly as another drop joined the puddle. He swallowed, calmly frozen in the moment, the heat of his blood trailing over his fingers. He stood up straight, his brow creased, and he reached for a shirt or whatever was near and held it against the cut, pressing firmly. The pain was detached from himself. His mind focussed on it, trying to pull it back. For a moment, he felt calm.

After the cut had congealed, Ste cleaned up and didn't think much else about it. He carried on as normally and as drunkenly as he had been doing. Perhaps the drunkenness increased, but he'd hardly been counting units. The numbness was harder to reach as time passed, and a tiny, nagging voice at the bottom of his brain was scratching away. It told him that soon, the alcohol probably wouldn't be enough.

A few weeks later, sat on the floor in the kitchen, Ste found himself thinking of the distant pain, and how his brain had focussed on the physical sensation, rather than the agony in his mind and heart. He was numb from the whiskey and lager he'd steadily consumed since waking, but not as numb as he'd would have liked to be. _Perhaps numb doesn't work any more,_ he thought. _I need more than numb now._

The first cut was too deep. It hurt in the wrong way. It wasn't like the clean slice of the broken glass. It wasn't quite _right_. Ste put down the bread knife, nursing the wound on his forearm and wondering how he was supposed to re-create the cracked tumbler moment again. Should he be more drunk? Less drunk? Should he make the cut with a pair of scissors, a steak knife, a straight knife – or would it only work with glass?

His arm sent splinters of pain coursing up to his shoulder. Ste flexed it, stretching it out and curling it back in again, the weeping cut opening and letting more redness out. He sighed. This was stupid. This was the sort of thing he'd read about in 'real stories' magazines and snorted at. How thick could he be? What was he really thinking he'd achieve? There were bandages and gauze under the sink, and Ste clumsily wrapped some around the cut to stop the bleeding and help it seal. 

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. Ste paused, listening. He crept up behind the door and slid the chain into place, then yanked it open as far as the chain allowed. Doug. He slammed it shut again. “Go fuck yourself,” he instructed, matter of factly. 

“Ste-”

“No.”

“Pl-”

“No!”

“Ste, we need to talk ab-”

“ _No!_ ” Ste repeated again

“Come on!” Doug shouted through the door. “You need to stop pushing me away! I'm your _friend,_ Ste!”

“Do you promise not to take every opportunity you can to remind me that I'm _so much better off without Brendan_ ; that I've finally got a chance to be myself now I'm _on my own?_ I'm sick of it, Doug! You think hearing that actually makes me feel better? Do you?”

“I won't say anything like that. I promise,” Doug replied.

Ste pretended to think about it. “Liar,” he spat. “Get lost, Doug.”

He moved away from the door and shut himself in his bedroom. The police had returned a lot of Brendan's things, and they were scattered around the room in bin bags and taking up pretty much every available square inch. For a man who'd spent a lot of time running, he'd had way too much stuff. The clothes were overflowing, and with no spare storage at number 2 any more, Ste had accepted every last thing. Eileen and Declan and Padraig had declined any interest in any of it. Cheryl had not responded to any texts, calls, messages or emails yet.

Ste was just going to have to keep it. He didn't see the sense in throwing or giving it away. Brendan would kill him if he ever got out and found that Dennis Savage now owned his cranberry boots with rhinestone detail. Besides, getting rid of all these things meant accepting that Brendan was never coming back, and Ste just wasn't ready to do that yet. Cheryl could have a change of heart, and Brendan wouldn't breathe a word of it to Ste, so that Ste would come home one day and just find Brendan lounging on the couch. “ _D'ya miss me?_ ” he'd ask. Then Ste would jump on him in a fit of rage and beat him to death.

He was pulled out of his fantasy by Doug knocking on the window. With a sigh, Ste tip-toed over the bed, curled up under the duvet and pretended he didn't exist. The cut on his arm throbbed soothingly, and he poked the bandage. 

“ _You can't keep doing this, Ste!”_ Doug was shouting through the glass. “ _You can't keep living like this!_ ”

No, Ste agreed. He couldn't. Doug had hit the nail on the head. Tomorrow, he was gonna find Cole, and he was gonna get himself some weed. Brendan would hate him for it, but Ste didn't care. He was desperate. It would help. He was sure.

_He was sure._


	2. A Little Drinky Won't Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doug tries to reach out to Ste. Ste attempts civility. Later on, he meets a handsome stranger in a club, and things seem to be making a bit of a turn.

There was an emptiness in exhaling, Ste realised. You literally forced something that was going to keep you alive as long as it was in you out of you, then got yourself a fresh batch to fill up on before chucking it out again. Ste wondered how much the air weighed inside him as he stared at the last embers glowing from the remnants of his joint, musing. 

It was cheap shit. He hadn't smoked in years, and it still took nearly the whole damn thing for him to feel even a little bit high. With each inward breath, his chest inflated, the weight of the air he'd pulled inside sitting heavy on his heart. Or was it the other way around? Was his heart sitting heavy on his lungs? Was the heart in front of or behind the lungs? Was he crushing his heart into his ribs every time he breathed in? Was he risking mincing his heart with too deep an inward pull?

Ste considered panicking. After a minute or two he decided he didn't have the energy. He'd made it this far without heart sausages squeezing out between his ribs, he was sure he'd make it another day. He fidgeted until he got comfortable again, then groaned loudly when he heard the three most annoying sounds he could possibly think of, all happening one after each other. The first annoying sound was a solitary knock on his door. The other two annoying sounds were the uniform knocks that followed.

With the grace of a shopping-laden mother with a pram trying to walk though a moving bus, Ste careered over to the door and made a sudden stop behind it. “Who's there?” he asked.

“ _Doug_ ,” came the reply.

Okay, so Ste had been unnecessarily mean to his husband lately. He supposed he should reciprocate this concern for his well-being with at least an attempt at good graces. The chain came off the door, and Ste stepped aside so that Doug could come in. 

“Jesus, Ste!” Doug instantly exclaimed, screwing his face up. “Are you high?”

“No,” Ste grimaced. “Cheap shit wouldn't put a baby to sleep.”

“Well … I'll ignore anything about your parenting skills that sentence may have implied.”

“Fuck you.”

Ste led the way into the living area and slumped down onto the threadbare settee. He slouched low, one arm on the arm rest, waiting for Doug to join him. Doug didn't sit, however. Uh oh. It looked like he wanted to Talk. Ste tried to keep his face neutral, hoping to deflect any difficult words away with his apparent apathy. It didn't work. From the expression Doug was wearing, he seemed to think Ste was ill.

“Are you okay?” Doug asked, peering closer and finally perching on the edge of the couch to get a better look. 

Ste couldn't help the sulky tone of his reply. “That's not a very nice question.”

“Ste...” Doug sighed. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and observed Ste a moment. Ste resolutely studied the loosening thread beneath his hands on the armrest. “Look, Ste,” Doug tried. Ste gritted his teeth and looked.

“What?” he asked.

“Erm … Ste … I think we need to talk.”

“M'kay.”

“About you.”

“Right.”

“About how you're … _coping_ ,” Doug finished lamely. “Y'know … the … drinking? And now weed? I'm worried about you, Ste.”

“Awww.” Ste let the sound drawl from his mouth. “In't that nice?”

“I'm here for you, Ste, whether you like it or not. I'm not gonna give up on you, okay?” Ste felt himself flinch, and Doug seemed to notice his renewed tension, judging by the slight recoil and the worried eyebrows. “I don't mean … Like … Y'know,” he tried. “I just want to be your friend, Ste. You need to stop pushing me out.”

“I'm not pushing you out,” Ste tutted. “You're butting in.” He folded his arms, his head drooping onto his shoulder. He hadn't slept properly for nearly two months, and it was starting to run him down. 

“Hey, so-” Doug changed the subject with false brightness that just served to grate Ste's nerves. “How about you and I go somewhere and hang out? Leanne will come.”

“No thanks. I'm proper tired, me. Just gonna have an early night.”

“Yeah, I – uh – I didn't mean today. Tomorrow, maybe? If you're up to it?”

Ste forced himself to smile, but from the way the muscles on his face felt taut and contorted it seemed he was simply pressing his lips together and scrunching up his nose. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

“What time d'ya meet?” asked Doug.

“Dunno. I've not exactly got a chocker social calendar right now.”

“Right. Yeah. So … how about five-ish?”

“Sure.”

“At the deli?”

Ste thought about it. “You might as well just come and get me from the Dog,” he suggested. “I'll probably be there anyway.”

Doug fidgeted and rubbed the back of his neck again. “Yeah...” he said, the sound trailing off toward the end. “You gonna stick to the soft drinks, though, right?” he asked, his tone light an airy as if he was attempting a joke.

“Nah,” Ste replied. “I don't think so.” He didn't feel the need to elaborate.

“Um … Okay … Well, I best be off,” Doug told him as he awkwardly lifted himself off the couch. “You should let me know if you need anything, by the way.”

“I'm good, ta.”

“But really... anything?”

Ste looked up at him a moment. “Might need milk,” he said.

Doug cleared his throat. He didn't say anything, but nodded slightly. He took this as his chance to politely leave, and saw himself out. Alone again at last, Ste relaxed into the sofa. He closed his eyes, trying make his mind blank, but now that Doug was gone he was feeling awake again. Yawning, he dragged himself out of his seat and into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

The clock ticking on the kitchen wall told him it was going up to seven. After his cuppa, he was going to grab a shower, then maybe put on something a bit nicer than his tracksuit. A new tracksuit, maybe. Then, he was going out. He was going to a pub he'd never been to before, then he was going to get trashed in a room full of strangers dancing to crappy music and falling over each other, stinking of sweat and smearing orange tan over everything except their own tidal lines and spilling cocktails on each other. Ahhhh. _Heaven_.

He stuck to the plan. The pub he found himself in was called The Square Bottle. It was a Weatherspoons, but what the Hell. It was down the Grosvenor end of town, so there weren't as many chavs as he'd have liked – but on the other hand, nobody bothered him. Just what this part of the evening called for. 

Ste started out with an Irish whiskey in honour of Bren, then he necked down a pint of the cheapest lager in one go. He got a beer with a burger for a fiver – something to soak up a bit of the alcohol, and more alcohol for good measure. Then more lager, as the clock ticked up toward ten. He decided to stick to alcopops for the rest of the night. There was something about their fake sweetness and false brightness he found appealing.

He found himself in a place called Rosie's, where it appears it might have been a 90s night. Somebody told him every night on that floor was 90s night. Okay then. He carried on up some stairs and found himself in a smoky, overcrowded and very loud room. There were girls in towering heels and tiny dresses everywhere. The number of boys in plaid shirts and burgundy drainpipes was disturbing. The music was far, far too loud, and nobody could hear a damn thing outside their heads. The bass pounded in Ste's chest, and he breathed in the smoke from the smoke machine and the scent of sweat pouring off the writhing dancers on the floor before him.

The bar was at the other end of the room, and Ste had to push he way through the crowd to get to it. The throng of tipsy women and bolshy men around the bar seemed to ebb from side to side as they all swayed in unison with the music. Ste employed his old Ice Cream Van Tactic. Where there were no clear queuing rules, it was every chav for himself. After sliding in from the top right of the hoard and using his sharp elbows to full effect, Ste landed himself a fish bowl. A flirty girl with bits of green-dyed hair bought it for him with a flutter of eyelashes. “Cheers, love,” he'd said after she parted with the cash. “My boyfriend will be proper impressed with this.” He raised the bowl toward her in a 'tip of the hat' manner, and without glancing at her again sidled off to the darkened edges of the floor. 

This place was soulless. Every place was soulless. Every space seemed to have something missing. Everywhere was bleak and without character. Nowhere was _enough_. Ste felt sick. He abandoned the fish bowl and staggered into the bathroom. He relieved himself, rinsed his hands, then ran headlong into a wall of muscle three times the broadness of a wardrobe. 

Ste wrinkled his nose. “'Ere mate, watch where you're going,” he snapped, attempting to push past the bloke to get to the rest of the club. The newcomer, however, used his considerable muscle and size to his advantage, blocking the door.

“You accepted an expensive cocktail off a dear friend of mine,” the wardrobe said. He was so big, he probably did contain Narnia. “Then it turned out you tricked her,” he continued, “and she's very upset.”

Ste rolled his eyes. “That ain't my fault. Taught her a life lesson, I did.” Ste managed to slip past this time, but the wardrobe lumbered after him. 

“Hey!” it shouted. “I'm talking to you!” It was drowned out by the horrible music, though, so Ste continued. A hand landed on his shoulder and spun him around. He instinctively ducked down and managed to avoid a right hook. The seriousness of the situation seemed to have increased. Preservation was necessary. Keeping low, Ste darted into the gyrating throng, popping up now and then, like a meerkat spying for danger. He made a split decision, and headed toward the DJ. He casually leaned on the booth and waited. Sure enough, the guy swanned over with back-up.

Ste tapped the DJ. “EE'YAH, MATE!” he yelled into the guy's ear. “THAT BLOKE THERE-” he pointed, “JUST PUT HIS HAND UP MY GIRLFRIEND'S SKIRT, AND WHEN I TOLD HIM TO BACK OFF-”

The DJ moved away from him. He switched off the music. He took out his microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a newsflash,” he began, his voice booming around the too-loud speakers. The entire crowd had stopped and was now staring up at the DJ. “That bloke there -” He pointed at the right wardrobe. “- put his hand up a woman's skirt without her consent.”

The was a ripple around the crowd, and the wardrobe stopped in its tracks. Ste could see that he was trying to find him with his eyes as the people around him became more irate, but Ste had already begun to make his exit. He passed some bouncers, who were making their way in to try and stop something before it started, and kept himself to himself. He was outside on the cobbled street before anybody stopped him.

“I saw what you did there,” said a voice. Ste turned. He was tall, not muscular but not skinny, and with skin, hair and eyes so pale he could have been albino. 

Ste shrugged. “Dunno what you mean.”

“Your survival instinct is fascinating.”

“ _Right,_ ” nodded Ste, turning as if to go. “Well, I'm headed off, so...”

“Wanna hang out with me and the lads? I'm Freddie, by the way.” Freddie held his hand out. He was pretty, Ste thought. He was wearing a black shirt with tight, blue jeans. No plaid or drainpipes in sight. 

“Ste.” Ste shook the hand. “Where you going?”

“No idea,” shrugged Freddie. “Gonna get the next train from the station and see where we end up. Up for it?”

Ste was unsure. His mind was foggy. They were gonna chuck that guy out any second once they'd managed to extract as many pieces of him as possible from the crowd, and Ste didn't want to be around when that happened. Ste decided to head on to the direction of the train station with Freddie and his mates. He could get a taxi from the rank outside if they seemed dodgy or losers.

“Posh shirt,” Ste observed as he navigated the pavement. 

“Borrowed,” explained Freddie. 

“You live round 'ere?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither. I hate the city centre.”

“Then why are you here?”

Ste shrugged. “Nobody knows me here.”

“Same.”

“Except your mates.”

Freddie chuckled. “Yeah. But your mates will forgive you anything.”

Ste made a sound he suspected was a 'guffaw'. “No they bloody won't,” he sneered. He stumbled on a slightly raised flagstone. Freddie went to catch him, but it wasn't necessary. “Sorry,” Ste mumbled. “Bit tipsy.”

“Didn't I hear a rumour about you and a fish bowl?” Freddie asked, amusement in his eyes. “You're a lot more than 'tipsy'.”

“I know, right?” grinned Ste. “You better not take advantage,” Ste warned. “My ex may be in prison but he still loves me and he'll still fuck your shit up just by thinking about it, so don't try anything, yeah?”

“You're gay?”

“Yeah,” Ste scowled, then rounded on Freddie. “YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH THAT?” he yelled in his face, nearly overbalancing and landing on him. 

_The way Freddie grinned...._ “No, Ste. I do not have a problem with that.”

Ste stumbled again as they kept walking. They'd be at the subway soon. “Where are your mates?” he asked.

“They were getting a KFC then meeting me at the station.”

“Why did they leave you in the club?”

“They went outside to smoke, then texted me that this place is shit. No talent. Let's move on.”

Ste pouted. “Am I not talent? Look at my face.”

Freddie made an 'mmm' sound. “Okay, there was one good call in this Roman ruin,” he conceded. “Where are you going?” he then asked.

“Er – train station?” Ste pointed at the stairs leading to the subway.

“No, no. We came from that direction. If we're gonna catch my mates up, we should go the same way as them.”

Ste frowned. He glanced down the road where Freddie was pointing, then back down at the warm glow from the piss-stinking subway. “Never been that way.”

“It's all houses, but it brings you out at the billboards near the station.”

“Hm,” Ste shrugged. “Fine. That way.”

They walked along quietly for a few minutes, then Freddie's phone beeped. It was an old-fashioned flip phone that didn't even have a colour screen. Ste stared at it. “Woah,” he breathed. “I _well_ bet a museum would pay good money for _that_.”

Freddie chuckled and brought the phone up to his ear, listening to it ring. “Oh, hi Brian. Yeah, I'm on my way. You got the food okay?” He listened to Brian for a moment. “Yeah. No. No. It's okay you don't have to. I've met somebody; he's up for a night out. Ste. Yeah. Nah. Where are you?” There were a couple more 'yeahs' and 'okays', then a 'Bye' and Freddie hung up. 

Ste giggled in a most unmanly and unchavly way. “Freddie? Brian? You starting a tribute act?”

Freddie laughed, but seemed strained by the observation. “Brian's my brother. My dad was a superfan.”

“The Van Tassels. The Von Toots. The Van Diesels.”

“Von Trapps?”

“Them with Mary Poppins and the guy who was a navy captain for a country with no sea border and is totally landlocked. Them.”

Freddie nodded along, kicking a stone out from under his feet. “This way,” he indicated. “Brian says they got invited to a house party. We just gotta drag them out of there and then carry on our way.”

“Ugh. Okay.”

They came to a stop outside a terraced house, and Freddie double-checked the address texted to him. “This seems like the place,” he said, then knocked on the door.

“Can't you just walk in at house parties?”

“Dunno,” shrugged Freddie. “Never been to one.” He bounced from foot to foot. He seemed anxious. 

“You okay?” Ste asked.

“Yeah,” Freddie assured him. “I just know how much Brian drinks when I'm not around to keep an eye on things.”

The door opened, the thud of a bass greeted them. The door was simply left open for them to walk in, so Freddie entered and Ste followed. The place was clearly a student flat. It was rank. Even Ste never let his place get this bad. The smell of vomit, cigarettes, stale sweat and stale sex hung in the hair like a web. He wrinkled his nose. The people were all in the front room smoking weed. Some were unashamedly snorting crack from the glass coffee table. It reminded Ste of his childhood.

“You wanna wait there?” asked Freddie, pointing at a window seat with nobody on it. “I'll go and get Brian et al.”

Ste grumbled, but staggered over to the seat and sat down to watch the crowd. A guy with olive skin and (surprise,) a plaid shirt came over to him. “Hey, sweet thing,” he smoothly poured out. “Want a drink?”

“Erm … go on then,” Ste shrugged. A glass of some kind of cocktail was pushed into his hand.

“Bottoms up!” grinned his new friend.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ste nodded, then downed the whole thing.

“Woah, sweet thing; you're gonna pass out drinking like that!”

Ste rolled his eyes. “Call me that again, and I'll nut ya.”

The plaid guy put his arm around Ste's shoulders and squeezed him tight. “I'd like to see you try, _sweet thing_ ,” he goaded. 

With a twist of his torso, Ste got his arm free and dug his nails straight into the back of the guy's neck. With a howl, the guy threw his face forward to escape the clawing, and cracked his nose against Ste's raised knee all by himself. He fell to the ground.

“Barely needed to try,” tutted Ste, and got to his feet. _Woah,_ his head was _swimming_. His vision was on time delay when he moved his head. He looked around him; everybody staring at the bloke on the floor, and at Ste, too drunk to really get away. Ste lunged forward, and in doing so he really _looked_ at the people around him. They were all so … normal. As in, when you went to – well, when you went anywhere, really – you always found some characters or something. But no. These guys, and every one of them was male, were all far too normal. All plaid. All drainpipes.

There was something harsh rubbing against Ste's cheek, and he distantly realised he'd fallen over. God, the numbness he was feeling. It was bliss. It was oblivion. It was everything he wanted. It was like the cut, only a million times more focussed. Everything around him was silent and meaningless. His whole body was … _feeling-less_. It was nearly two minutes of happy oblivion before his brain finally caught up.

Panic and fear were ebbing into the perfect nothingness, and at the back of Ste's memory he could hear a charming voice leaning in to remind him: _Your survival instinct is fascinating..._

 _Well,_ thought Ste, _You're going to fucking test it now, Freddie. You're going to fucking test it now …_


	3. And Around We Go

When Ste woke up, he was in pain. It felt as though Mohammed Ali had gone three rounds on his torso, and then climbed into his head and beat the crap out of his brain. There was a ringing in his ears, his joints were aching, and the ground he'd been left on was just the hardwood you'd find when you pulled up a carpet.

It was still dark outside, but he wasn't sure if it was the same night or the next. His brain was choked with the fog of whatever it was he'd been spiked with. It hadn't been Rohypnol; he was familiar with the effects of Rohypnol. Ste dragged himself into a sitting position and touched his forehead, finding cold, clammy sweat beading there. He still had his own clothes on. The silence in the rest of the house was unnerving.

His vision began to accustom to the gloom, and Ste could see he was in a sizeable bedroom. The floor was bare wood, the window was large and partly boarded over, and the bed was a cheap frame from Ikea with an old mattress thrown onto it. A clothes rail, likely stolen from a shop somewhere, stood by the far wall. It had four empty hangers on it. 

Ste patted his pockets, but obviously his phone and money were gone. His shoes were gone, too. Head pounding from either hangover or the drug, he started to slowly pull himself to his feet. The urge to switch on the light tugged at his brain, but he refused. As soon as it switched on, they'd know he was awake. Same went for trying the door. Ste gritted his teeth and rubbed his eyes. 

He inspected the window first. It was painted and nailed shut, and the few boards that had been stuck over it prevented any real purchase. It was an old-fashioned sash window, and coupled with the bare wooden floors and large-ish room, Ste guessed the house was pretty old. Stooping, he stuck his head through a gap in the boards to see outside. Yes, the house was old. It was three stories tall – maybe more, since the ceiling of this room didn't slope with the roof. There was probably an attic or loft above him. 

Leaving the window, Ste crept over to the door, dragging his feet millimetres above the wood so it was less likely footsteps would be heard downstairs. The lock was old-fashioned, like the window, and the door was heavy wood. Ste massaged his pounding forehead. He could pick locks, but he had no idea what he'd do from that point onward. He had no clear memory of the house he'd been brought to, and wasn't even sure this was the same house. As such, he had no idea how the house was laid out. He had a feeling that in old houses, the stairs would lead straight to the front door. Only small houses had their front doors lead straight into living rooms with the stairs beyond, right?

Ste used his nails to pull up two large, narrow splinters from the floorboards. Blood blossomed from his fingertip, and he stared at the bead for a moment. He returned to himself, and took the splinters to the door. He used one as a guide to help the other in, and then carefully felt for the give of the tumblers. After a couple of moments, he stopped. Ste frowned. The door wasn't even locked. Very cautiously and very gently, his breathing getting quicker and his pulse beginning to thud in his wrist, Ste reached out for the handle. Slowly – very slowly – he pulled it down. He pulled the door toward him carefully. It didn't open. It must have been bolted from the outside. 

Then, with a _scrape_ and a slight creak of hinges, the door gave. Ste's heart climbed into his throat in terror as it did. It had made him jump, but he also had no idea what he was going to find behind it. 

The carpet in the hallway was faded and holey, threadbare at the edges and mouldy in places. The corridor his door opened out to consisted of other closed doors, and to his left he could make out a small, cracked, stained-glass window dimly lighting the landing. Slowly, slowly, he moved toward it. Everything was still silent. Everybody must be asleep. He hoped everybody was asleep. 

He reached the stairs and gripped the bannister for support. His breathing was painful and loud. His heart was working overtime. He ignored his banging head for the sake of survival. Using his bare toes, he felt about on the stair to see if it would creak if he stood on it. The stairs were wide, and the bannister was sturdy. Gripping it tight enough for his knuckles to white, Ste lowered himself onto the first step. As an experiment, he shook the bannister. It didn't seem like it was going to make a sound, so he threw his leg over it and slid down to the next landing. 

There were lights on this one, pouring out from underneath one or two doors. He had to be extra, extra, extra, extra quiet, then. He lowered himself from the bannister, skittered across the landing, threw his leg over the bannister again and slid down. He was in the tiled hallway. There were maybe ten metres between him and the probably locked front door. There must be a key somewhere. This building was communal; communal buildings have key dishes. 

Ste paused, listening. He tilted his head to the side. There was a mat in front of the door. Considering the rest of the house, that seemed odd. Ste took a step closer. There were small panes of glass at the top of the door, and through it he could see small balls of orange light from the street lamps outside. He took another step, then jumped out of his skin as something from the other side hit the door with a _THUD_ and the wood splintered.

“ _Shit, shit, shit,_ ” he whispered, backing up toward the space underneath the stairs. The door flew open with a huge _BANG_ , the handle denting the other wall. People were pouring in. _Police people_ , with guns and loud shouting. Ste covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. His head _screamed_ in pain, despite the relief flowing through him. His legs were like jelly. He wasn't on his own any more. Doug, he realised. Doug must have reported him missing. Ste was going to have to force himself to be much nicer to Doug from now on. Maybe get him some flowers. Not lilies. 

Rough hands grabbed him, dragging him to his feet. “Ow, watch it mate,” Ste mumbled. He let out a cry of pain as he was shoved into a wall and his hands were forced behind his back. Metal cuffs found his wrists. That wasn't right. “Hey,” he groaned. “Hey – I'm the victim here!”

“You're under arrest,” the officer told him. He sounded young. “Do you understand what I'm saying, sir?”

“Yep. But you're doing this wrong.”

“You're under arrest under suspicion of prostitution. You don't have to say anything, but anything you do say may later be used against you in court...”

Ste blanked the rest of it out. He didn't panic. He'd be identified, he'd give a statement, he'd witness the court hearing. He was dragged outside and led to a van. He dug his heels into the ground and the officer had to stop.

“You can't put me in there!” he shouted. “I'm the victim here!” He felt the veins in his head throbbing.

“Yeah, yeah,” sighed the officer, and pull him on.

“Hey! No! You can't lock me in with those people!”

Ste had barely even twisted and three officers were on him, pinning him to the ground. There was something holding his face into the cold paving slabs of the floor and a foot was crushing his back. “Ow!” he yelled. “Ow! You fucking pig bastards! Get off me!” The foot ground in, then released. He was dragged to his feet and manhandled into the cage in the back of the van. The cage door was swung shut, but the main door was left open. Ste was lying face down with his hands cuffed behind his back. He was out of breath with exertion by the time he managed to get himself onto his back, then sat, then sat on the bench surrounding the cage, cursing as he went. 

There was yelling and sirens. Ste could see people down the street coming out in dressing gowns with cups of tea in their hands, ogling at the scene unfolding. Ste shifted to get comfortable, his lungs sore in the cold air. They were going to lock him up with the people who'd … whatever they were going to do to him. Oh God. 

The first one they brought was a skinny, older than Ste by maybe five years and drugged out of his mind. He was only wearing boxers and he didn't seem to understand what was going on. Next was a burly bloke who was quiet and didn't struggle. Close behind him was the olive-skinned man, ranting and raving and fighting his whole way into confinement. They shut the cage behind him, and he got a damn good look at everybody he'd been caged with. His eyes pierced into Ste.

“You!” he yelled. “You! It was you!”

“Fuck off,” Ste replied. “If it were me I wouldn't be here, would I?”

“Stupid fucking faggot,” he seethed. 

Ste rolled his eyes. “I'm not the one on my way to prison, mate.”

The thought of it sent his – what, attacker? - into a frenzy. He wound up lying on the floor of the van kicking the cage door and yelling about his human rights.

 _What about my human rights?_ thought Ste. _What did you care for my human rights when you did what you did? Why do you think you deserve yours?_

The last one they brought to the same van as Ste was Freddie. He didn't make a fuss. He was calm. He was smiling a little. He thanked the officers for their gentle handling. When he sat on the bench, giving slightly annoyed looks in the direction of the man who had drugged Ste, he stretched his legs out like a cat and flexed his toes, resting his feet on the bench opposite. The main door was slammed shut, and they were all put into darkness.

Ste sat rigid. He couldn't deny it: Freddie terrified him. He couldn't breathe. He was suffocating. He'd liked that guy. He'd trusted him. He'd seemed cool. He'd seemed genuine. He'd latched onto Ste when he was at his most vulnerable and lured him into this … whatever. And he'd done it smiling.

The vehicle shuddered and it began to move, and dim, orange lights flickered into life on the ceiling.

“It's a shame we never got better acquainted,” said Freddie, and Ste raised his head to find piercing pale eyes boring into him, so much colder than the warmth he was sure had been there. “But it didn't feel right with you so … unconscious. I prefer it when they wriggle.”

Ste felt the bile rising in his throat with each word. 

“And – Ste, wasn't it? You're just so pretty. I wanted to see your eyes before they went … well, you know when you look at someone, and they're somewhere else? I just hate that.”

Ste looked away. He was going to ignore him. 

“I watched you wandering about the house, before you ask. Your door was unlocked because I liked to go in and look at you,” pressed on Freddie. “And when I went in and you weren't there … Well, it was funny to watch you sliding down the bannister. And also clever of you. The stairs do creak. Your jailbird boyfriend must miss you.” 

Ste gritted his teeth, and his headache intensified. 

“It's a shame you seem to have lost your tongue.”

Resolutely not looking, Ste balled his hands into fists. The van lurched and vibrated as they took a tight corner, and he could hear the sound of the muffled police radio on the other side of the wooden square that would slide back to reveal the drivers through a meshed window. 

“When did you last see him? Your boyfriend?”

Ste did not reply. The air was tense, and Freddie was the only one doing anything about the silence. Even the olive-skinned drug-attacker was silent and tense, listening. The other two guys stared at their feet. Shifting to find more comfort, Freddie settled again. 

“I don't know why you're being so quiet. I couldn't shut you up the other night. They do say, though, that the highly verbose are good with their tongues. Fellatio is second nature to them.”

 _The other night?_ thought Ste. How long had they kept him sleeping?

“Tell me your fella's name,” demanded Freddie. “I'll say 'hello' to him in prison. Have you noticed that I'm highly verbose?”

Ste's head snapped around involuntarily, and he glared a Freddie. Freddie stopped smiling.

“A nerve,” he said, “has been stamped on.”

“You know what, Freddie?” growled Ste. “I bet your mother will be so fucking proud when she hears about what you've been doing.”

Freddie's eyes flashed. “Oh!” he chuckled, laughing off the moment. “You're bringing mothers into this?”

“I'll be fully meeting my mother's expectations,” shrugged Ste. “I bet yours … well, she's gonna be destroyed, right.”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” snapped Freddie. 

Ste didn't reply, but felt his lips pulling into a smirk. He looked away again. Freddie stopped talking. Adrenaline was making Ste's hands shake behind his back and his knees knock together, but he could easily disguise that as the vibrations of the van. The tension was unbearable. Ste was sure Freddie was going to glare at him for the rest of the journey. The adrenaline released from standing up to Freddie was giving way to panic. His brain told him, (in Brendan's voice, naturally): _Don't worry, Steven. You're innocent. You know that. They'll check you over, ID you. Douglas might even be waiting for you. Just sit tight, okay? Get this bit over with. It'll be fine._

The van came to a stop, and they were plunged into darkness. Voices came from outside, barking orders. Keys slid into the lock in the back door of the van, and it was wrenched open. Grey sunrise poured in, and Ste's eyes killed. His headache increased again. Freddie was pulled out of the van first, resuming his calm and controlled persona, thanking officers, wishing them a good morning. 

“Listen,” said the guy who'd drugged Ste as they pulled the stoned guy out. “Ste?”

“Mm.”

“What happened … what-”

“Shut up and go fuck yourself.”

They pulled Ste out last, and frogmarched him into the station. They held him still in line at the front desk. “Can somebody tell me what's going on?” he asked a few times, but he was stoutly ignored. He gave up. Somebody would tell him eventually. A female officer booked him in behind the desk. She ran his name through the computer, then squinted at the screen. 

“Steven Hay?” she repeated.

“Yeah.”

“Reported missing yesterday evening,” she said. “Didn't turn up to a drink with friends?”

“Doug!” he grinned. “Yeah! Where is he?”

She didn't reply, and carried on with her procedure. He was still shouting questions when they slammed a cell door shut in his face. At least now he was on his own. After about half an hour, though, a man and an officer came to him.

“We need to examine you,” said the plain-clothes man. 

“Excuse you?”

A screen was wheeled in, and the stranger indicated Ste stand behind it. “Take off your clothes.”

“What?”

“Take off your clothes. We need to examine you.”

“They didn't rape me,” Ste insisted.

“It's procedure,” the man replied. Ste assumed he must be a doctor.

Reluctantly, Ste undressed behind the screen. They took his clothes and put them in a bag, and he was given ugly jogging bottoms and a grey t-shirt to wear.

He was poked and prodded – and he literally meant 'poked and prodded'. It felt weird being fingered when he wasn't turned on. It didn't feel right. Eventually he was allowed to dress again and told he would be taken to wash once samples had been taken. 

“How did you get that cut on your arm?” asked the man Ste assumed was a doctor.

“Accident with a kitchen knife.”

“Looks very deep, and really rather neat.”

“Fuck off,” Ste replied, for want of a better answer.

“Do you cut yourself often?” the doctor asked.

“I've never cut myself on purpose,” Ste lied.

The doctor nodded, then jotted down some notes on the clipboard he'd brought. “I'm going to take blood, and a few hairs, too.”

“What for?”

“Drugs testing.”

“Oh. I was drugged at the house. I was date-raped, but Freddie said they didn't get around to the 'rape'.”

“Okay,” nodded the doctor. He sounded like he didn't believe him. 

“I've been unconscious for a long time,” Ste pressed on. “I woke up there. Don't even think it's the same place they drugged me.”

“Yes, okay,” the doctor replied. He tied a tourniquet around Ste's arm. After a moment or so, he stuck a needle in and drew blood. Finally, he yanked four or five hairs out of Ste's head. “That's all,” he said, and left.

Ste lay down on the hard, uncomfortable bench and stared at the ceiling as he held the cotton ball to the needle's puncture wound. He was fed up of this. He wanted to go home. He wanted his own bed, and for once, familiar people. The reality of what had nearly happened was setting in, and it terrified him. What if the police hadn't come? He'd never have gotten away with Freddie watching. Not unless he armed himself. 

What felt like hours later, he was finally led out of the cell in cuffs and taken to an interview room. A white, balding fat man in a beige suit and greasy hair sat behind a table. A recording machine was waiting. The presence of the mirror on the opposite wall basically destroyed the illusion that they'd be alone.

“Mr. Hay,” he was greeted, “I'm DI Coult. Take a seat. This is my Constable, DC Duya. We have some questions for you regarding the recent activities at number 237 Lightfoot Street.”

Ste sat down, trying his best not to look guilty of something when he wasn't even guilty of anything. He was informed that the interview was going to be recorded. The DC sat behind the desk, rustled a few papers, and then the button to record was pressed. DC Duya read his name in a lilting Jamaican accent, then the charges. DI Coult took over, then.

“So, I suppose we should get straight to it: What were you doing at the address named previously?”

Ste explained about being drunk, and meeting Freddie, and being led back to the house. He told them about the drink he'd accepted, and then what happened after he woke up. DI Coult nodded along. “Tell me, Mr. Hay,” he began, “Why were there no signs of a sexual attack, if you had been there – from your explanation, you'd been there over two days. Forgive my forwardness, but why would they not have attacked you in that time?”

“Freddie talked to me in the back of the van,” Ste explained. “He told me he wanted me to be conscious when he … y'know …”

DI Coult nodded. “Mhmm,” he said. “Your physical exam report states that you have engaged in sexual activity with other men.”

“What?”

DI Duya cut in. “The anus loosens. It is possible to tell.”

Ste turned crimson. He could see his red face in the mirror out of the corner of his eye. It felt like everybody was laughing at him. “I'm gay,” he said. “Of course I've had sex with men.”

DI Coult shifted in his seat. “You don't look gay, if I'm honest, Mr. Hay. And don't you have two children?”

“Yeah. I also had a civil partner.”

“Douglas Carter. An immigrant from America.”

“What you insinuating?”

“Nothing, Mr. Hay. So, from you explanations, you had no idea what that house has been operating as?”

“I have an idea now.”

“And?”

“It's a … I dunno what you call it now. Brothel? Bordello?”

“More or less,” nodded Coult. “Can I ask, you claim to be depressed, which is why you were drinking so much the night your friend Freddie found you. Why were you depressed?”

“My boyfriend's in prison, and my ex took my kids away.”

“I see. And did you seek professional help or counselling for this depression?”

“No. I was just dealing with it.”

“I see,” Coult repeated. “So you have no formal identification of this depression?” Ste shook his head. “I see. And in what way, other than drinking, were you dealing with this depression?”

“Moping and sleeping and being nasty to people, mostly.”

“And looking for thrills, maybe?”

“Thrills?” Ste frowned.

“Yeah. Some people get a thrill from it.”

“From what?” asked Ste.

“Selling themselves. Selling sex in exchange for money. Is that how you dealt with your losses?”

“Fuck no!” Ste seethed. “I'm the victim here!” he snapped. 

“Of course,” nodded Coult. Ste felt a stab of panic. He didn't believe him. 

“Let's change the subject. You mention a civil partner, but then also a boyfriend. Are they one and the same, might I ask?”

“No. They're not the same.”

“Oh?”

“I broke up with my civil partner in December.”

“You only entered into the civil partnership in November!”

“Yeah.”

“You've made no attempt to dissolve this civil partnership?”

“Not yet. Not had time. It was a mutual breakup so there wasn't much rush or hating or anything.”

“How long had you known each other before entering into this … union?”

“Erm ...” Ste thought out loud. He counted on his fingers. “About six months?” he answered.

“And you can see why, from my point of view, this would be suspicious?”

“Not really.”

Coult sighed. “Did you enter into this partnership with Mr. Carter so that he could remain in the country?”

“Eh? No?” Ste blinked in surprise.

“Just humour my hypothetical situation. You meet this guy; this American, and you get on really well. Bezzie mates and all that.” Ste grimaced at the attempt at slang. “But one day he turns to you and says 'Ste, my visa runs out at the end of November. I don't wanna to back to the States yet. Could you do me a massive favour?' Does a conversation like that sound familiar?”

“No. And I want to stop the interview. You're supposed to be asking me about the fucking house, not this.”

Coult nodded to Duya, and the recording was stopped. Coult leaned forward over the desk.

“I'm on to you,” he whispered. “I'm going to pull this whole thing apart until I get my answers, you understand me?”

Ste tutted. “There's nothing to pull apart,” he replied tartly. “I'm not answering anything else until my solicitor gets here.”

Coult sat back in his chair. “Of course, Mr. Hay. What's your solicitor's name?”

“Jim.”

“Jim … what?”

“I dunno. Just 'Jim'.”

By the time they managed to get Greasy Jim in, Ste was a mass of nerves. He'd been stewing in his cell for too long. He'd overthought the situation. “They're gonna send me down,” he worried, rocking back and forward on the edge of the bench.

“Shh,” demanded Jim. “I'm reading.”

“He was asking me all sorts of questions. I think he doesn't like gays. He seemed sympathetic until I told him I'm gay.”

“Then you can get him for discrimination in your appeal.”

“Woah, woah, woah – you think I'm gonna go to prison?” Ste exclaimed.

“That wasn't what I said,” replied Jim. “I'll sit in on your next interview and we'll gauge the situation.”

Ste was exasperated. “I'm the victim here!” he snapped, and he felt his eyes burning hot and his vision clouding. The remnants of his headache were coming back. He felt drained. He was genuinely scared.

“They can only hold you for 24 hours until any new information is uncovered,” Jim assured him. “Unless they get back around to interviewing you by four am, you're good to go until they have something tangible. That means they're going to rush through everything they can so that they don't have to release you then arrest you again – or, in the best case, lose any right to hold you – which means they're going to make more mistakes.”

Ste groaned. “I can't go down for prostitution,” he said. “Drunk and disorderly behaviour or ABH I'd understand. But prostitution?”

With a sigh, Jim sat on the bench next to him. “They're using the fact you've willingly had sex with men against you,” he explained. “There's no sign of forced sexual activity. It's very easy for them to assume you were a willing prostitute. However your toxicology shows signs of easy-to-obtain sedatives, and they know you've smoked weed recently.”

“So … Is it likely I could go down for this?”

“... And don't get me started on their immigration fraud case ... Getting married six months after meeting someone? What were you thinking?”

“I dunno any more,” Ste sighed, putting his face in his hands. “Have you ever just wanted to be somebody else so much that the somebody you were pretending to be accidentally fell in love with the idea of what somebody else should be like?”

“That doesn't make sense.”

Ste raised his head and ruffled his own hair. It felt unwashed. “It makes sense to me. Perfectly.”

The lock scraped back.

“Oh no,” breathed Ste. “Tell them I'm innocent, Jim!” he demanded.

“I will,” Jim nodded, sneaking a bit of doughnut and not taking his eyes from the paper he was holding. He followed them to the interview room, still reading.

Despite how useless he appeared, Jim was actually very good at keeping Coult in check. He told Ste what he should and shouldn't answer. He told Coult when he was inappropriate or going off topic. But still it wasn't enough. 

It took a fifteen minute break for them to decide.

With a smarmy, not even apologetic look, they charged him.

That was it. He was going down.

He was going into custody.

He was _going down_.


	4. To Custody, and beyond...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ste discovers what he really wants for himself, and just what he is capable of in order to get it.

It was time to re-evaluate, Ste decided, lying on his bed in the custody of Thorn Cross Young Offenders Institution for males aged 18-25. He was going to have a damn good think about his options from here on out, and Jim wasn't going to be at all involved in the process. He thought about his life as it had been, first. How he would wake up some time in the afternoon, stumble about with a hangover he'd be convinced would kill him. If there was hot water, he might have a bath with a beer. Sometimes he'd take his phone with him to flick through the photos of Leah, Lucas and Brendan. 

Somebody usually checked on him every three or four days to see if he was dead yet. Doug, usually. Then he'd go to the club and sit on a stool at the bar, watching everybody dancing and creating a sour aura of 'Do Not Approach' around himself, like the track-suited ghost of Chez Chez club nights past. If he didn't go to the club, he'd go to the Dog. Sometimes he'd go into town. Either way, the rest of the night was a haze until he woke up the next afternoon. 

His life was existence, and he wasn't even really too keen on continuing. There was a massive hole that he couldn't ignore. A black hole in his chest that was dragging the rest of him inside to an unknown nothingness that he wasn't even trying to pull himself away from. Ste wasn't overly keen on returning to that indeterminate existence, but he had no idea how to get out of it without Brendan.

He squeezed his eyes shut as little needles poked at the back of his eyeballs, trying to make him cry. Ste refused to let them win. Instead, he turned onto his side. Presently, what would happen to his existence next was a mystery. There was a great deal of trepidation and uncertainty that he'd never really experienced when considering the long-term before. Jim had told him that very few people charged with his crimes would find themselves with a prison sentence, and if they did the longest he'd heard of was six months. 

Ste wondered at that. What if he was sent to prison? He thought of Brendan. Would Brendan want him if he knew what he'd been charged with? There was no guarantee Brendan would even want to look at him if he knew – this was assuming, of course, that by some stretch of the imagination Ste was sent to the same facility as Brendan. The chances were minimal. Brendan was a murderer. That made him Category A. High security; threat to public safety. After initial incarceration, Brendan had been transferred to Strangeways. No way would a prostitute from Chester be bothersome enough to transfer there.

The tickling desire deep in his stomach – a crazy itch that he'd stopped denying was there – was growing more intense. Category A status. He could reach it. If he wanted to, he could reach it. Anybody could, if they were crazy enough. He didn't have it in him to rape or murder. Grievously harm, though … he supposed he could do that, if motivated. He could confess to handling Class As, but it was so long ago and he was hardly big time. Ste pushed the idea back again. He was going crazy. Brendan would hate him if he did that.

Ste supposed he would just have to leave his fate to the hands of the judge and deal with whatever blows came. He was sure he could survive. He might even get a qualification out of it if there were courses or whatever. Thorn Cross made you do educational and vocational courses as part of imprisonment.

Thorn Cross was low-security; more like a boot camp than even an open prison. During his transfer, he'd not even been cuffed, and they'd presented him with promotional materials and brochures on the door during his induction. He even held the key to his own room. They gave him more joggers and a pale blue t-shirt, took him for a tour around the prison then gave him some food. 

This was nothing like his other young offenders'. He supposed he mustn't be considered even the _tiniest_ bit dangerous. In a way, that irked him. Jim had told him to behave; to use his angelic face and his baby blue eyes and play nice with the other boys. Work hard, show an interest. He'd call him later when there was a concrete hearing date.

The door to his room opened, and Ste blinked out of his train of thought. In front of him was a tall, pale older inmate, with hair dyed black and a tattoo of a blood-dipped chainsaw on his shoulder. “Hey,” the stranger said. “I'm John. You're Ste, right?”

“Yeah,” Ste replied. “What do you want?” He sat up on his bed so that he wouldn't be too rude, but didn't get up to his feet. John moved closer. He didn't seem friendly. John curled his fingers under Ste's chin, and Ste recoiled. He moved to shove the hand off, but John had other ideas. He pinned Ste down to his bed by his neck.

“I believe you know my big brother,” he growled. Ste could barely hear him over the sound of blood rushing through his ears, his heart drumming too loudly in his chest. He refused to thrash and appear weak.

“Dunno what you're talking about,” he rasped. He felt cold metal press against his abdomen. The adrenaline and blood-rushing increased dramatically. 

“Freddie?” suggested John.

Ste flinched at the name. “Fucking psycho,” he seethed. “He's gonna get lock-” He was cut off mid-sentence – as was his air supply as John bore his hand down harder. Ste had never been unable to breathe before. He was so tense he could feel wetness dripping from his hands where his nails were digging into his palms.

John's face was very close to his. “You will plead guilty, gayboy. You'll keep him out of this. You get me?”

Ste couldn't reply with anything other than a slight incline of his head. Air rushed painfully back into the vacuum of his lungs. The cold metal was removed from his abdomen, and a hand tangled in his hair. The blade returned to his skin, but this time it was the skin of his face.

“You so much as suggest he might have been involved, and I'll cut your skin off piece by piece until you die.”

John didn't wait for a reply. He just left, slamming the door behind him. Ste was still trying to breathe, gasping like a fish out of water. What the _fuck_? He tried to swallow the saliva that had pooled in his mouth, but when he tried to swallow his bruised throat wouldn't allow it. He dry-heaved, the cotton of his bed covers curling into his fists, red staining them from his nail-imprinted palms.

Shitting _hell_. 

Patiently, he waited for his body to recover, and promised himself he would forget the incident. No way would he beat down the guy. Not even a chance. 

Ste set his jaw. Temptation was hard to resist.

~*~*~*~

It was playing dirty, but Ste didn't care. He ambushed John when he was alone. He didn't stop punching until John stopped moving, begging and crying. Ste stood back and examined the nicks on his knuckles, and the blood that wasn't his that stained his hands. He decided he'd gotten his point across, and left John to it.

~*~*~*~

Doug came to see him the next day. “How are you - _and what were you thinking_?” he asked. “Prostitution?”

“Oi,” Ste scowled. “I never did it,” he insisted. “I met this guy, we went to this house, and I got drugged.”

“So … what's going to happen now?”

Ste shrugged. “No idea.”

“Do you think you're going to be convicted?”

Ste shrugged again and pulled a face. “No idea. If I behave myself and I'm nice, then maybe not. Jim says I should try 'blue-eyed and angelic'.”

“Have you decided how you're gonna plead?” asked Doug.

“Er – not guilty? Obviously?”

“Good. Well, I'm behind you the whole way. You know that? I'll be there at the hearing and I'll bring you anything you need. I'm gonna support you.”

“Thanks,” nodded Ste. “I don't deserve it.”

“You've been through stuff,” replied Doug. “It's okay.”

“Anyway,” Ste said, deciding to change the subject. “What's going on in Dougland?”

“Don't … y'know … hit the roof. You have to behave yourself, remember?” Doug worriedly reminded him.

“Go on …” Ste prompted, his brows creasing. He was certain he wasn't going to like whatever Doug had to say.

“I … I … erm … I gave John Paul a job in the deli.”

“Eh?”

Doug tried to smile, but his uncomfortable shifting gave him away. “I gave John Paul a job in the deli.”

“Sorry – it might just be me, but I think you just tried to tell me that you gave John Paul a job in the deli...”

Doug nodded. “Yeah. That's the … That's what happened.”

“Is this a joke?”

“Nope. Just … with you being so absent, I couldn't run the place by myself and Leanne's – well, Leanne's Leanne, so I took on an extra pair of hands. He's been suspended from the college so … Look, I just – I was gonna tell you. I was. I just needed the right moment.”

“ _Was_ gonna tell me?” Ste repeated. “Hang on – how long's he been working there for?” he demanded angrily. 

Doug tried to shrug it off like it was nothing. “Maybe a couple of weeks.”

“ _Weeks?_ Doug!”

“I know, I know. I'm _sorry_.”

“How could you do that? You know how things are like between me and him!”

“It's my deli, too!”

“Er – no it isn't. It's my name on the paperwork. You never _had_ ownership.”

“That's not fair! It's half mine in all but legalities! You agreed!”

Ste shrugged. “I don't see no agreement in writing.” He folded his arms.

“You're a selfish bitch,” Doug snapped. “You should never have asked Brendan to make it 100% yours!”

“But I did, so...”

“After everything I've done for you?”

“Like what?” Ste asked. “What do you want, really? Half the deli? Have half the deli. In fact, you know what – have it all. We only make losses now anyway, I could do with cutting mine.”

Doug stared at him a moment, lost for words. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Ste nodded. “I could do with the entertainment of you tryna cook new stuff.”

“Shut up.”

Ste settled back into his chair. He folded his arms over his chest and regarded Doug carefully. “I meant it, though. You want the deli? Take it. I got one condition, though.”

“What?”

“You have to take my name out of the brand.”

“Done.”

Ste tutted. “Didn't even need to think about it, did ya?”

“The deli would be better off without you anyway,” Doug shot back. “You proved that over the past couple of weeks.”

“Managed more than a tenner profit, did you? That's cute.”

Doug silently glared at him. Ste glared coolly back. It became a staring competition. Eventually, Doug banged his fists on the table between them, got abruptly to his feet and stalked out of the room. Ste didn't watch him go. He felt too guilty to look at him. He knew that cutting Doug out would be the best thing to do in case he got sent down – and if he didn't, then Doug would forgive him. Blame it on prison pressure.

He went back to his room, lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling, waiting for Jim to call.

~*~*~*~

It would be three days more before he'd hear anything from Jim. Good news! His hearing was in two days! Yay!

Ste had already been conscripted onto a crappy course that taught them how to build chairs out of wood or something, and his complete ineptitude at it just made him angry. The tutor had told him to 'chill', and Ste had lashed out and whacked him with the finely-crafted claw foot chair leg of the boy next to him – which then led to a fight with said boy and the removal of his key and dessert privileges. 

Jim nipped in to see him to brief him about what to expect. He even brought him a suit that he'd 'dug out from the slum', only for it to turn out to be one of Brendan's from a couple of years ago; before he could afford the gym membership, or maybe before Ste had made that flippant comment about liking muscled arms. Or it could have been the spare time he had during his first stint in prison. Either way, the suit was too long in the leg, but more or less fit his top half. It'd have to do. 

Time dragged. He was sent to learn how to sew sequins onto handbags. He heard sniggers behind him. _Queen. Fairy. Poof. Whore._ Ste tried to grit his teeth and ignore it, and only just managed to stop himself from gouging out a guy's eye with a stitch un-picker before there was any damage that was too serious. So he was back in Anger Management, and he sat on the sofa and hugged his knees. He talked about his mam and about Terry. He talked about Brendan – how it was unfair. That Brendan shouldn't be in prison. The police shouldn't have manhandled them apart like bin bags of rubbish. His counsellor mmm'd and ahhh'd and nodded.

“Have you thought maybe you're in denial?” he'd asked, placidly. “Your boyfriend confessed to the murder. He did it, Ste. He's staying in prison. Shouldn't you be angry at him?”

“I'm not angry at him, though.”

“Then who are you angry at?”

“Mostly just myself.”

Scaffolding was his next attempt. He wound up just screwing together a sort of Stonehenge out of metal pipes. “It's monkey bars for a playground,” he told the instructor. 

Doug came to see him again. “I'm sorry,” was the first thing Doug had said. “I'm just taking out how scared I am for you on you, and … I didn't help. I'm sorry.”

Ste shrugged. “It's forgotten, mate.”

They talked about the deli, about John Paul, about Leanne and Texas. There was a new family in town, and one of them had been stealing stuff from the deli and it worried Doug that it'd just get worse and worse. 

A buzzer sounded, and Doug left, and Ste spent another afternoon staring at the ceiling. He wondered, and not for the first time, what Brendan was doing right then. Was he lying in his bed and staring at the ceiling, too? Was he with friends? Was he beating up some little shit who'd given him attitude? Ste wished he knew. Brendan was beginning to feel more and more like a dream he couldn't hold on to. The way he'd felt, when they'd taken him away from Brendan … that wasn't a pain he could survive again, which was why his thoughts about prison had to stop. 

John had recovered without naming his attacker – nobody grassed on anybody, so it wasn't unexpected – and worryingly hadn't retaliated. Ste thought about it. If he confessed to the beating, would Jim let him plead for actual bodily harm? That was Cat A material. Or would he have to actually nearly kill John? 

Yes. The thoughts about getting transferred to Strangeways had to stop.

Jim visited again on the morning of the hearing, and helped him into the too-big suit.“If I do get sent down, where are they going to send me?” Ste asked, sitting down on his bed to roll up the hems of his trousers. 

Jim perched next to him. “I know what you're thinking, and you can put that thought out of your mind.”

“What thought?” scowled Ste.

“The 'Maybe I'll have a sunset reunion with my sugar daddy' thought.”

“Eh?”

Jim rolled his eyes. Ste knew exactly what he was talking about, he just wanted to deny hearing it. Jim dug in his pocket for a snack of something. “Brendan is a Category A prisoner. He's been transferred to Strangeways. There's no reason to send you there. End of.”

Ste stared at him a moment. He knew it had been hopeless, but he had been beginning to convince himself that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't. “Okay. What would I have to do to be put in Strangeways?”

“Rape. Murder. Attempted murder. Manslaughter. Indecent assault, supplying Class As, terrorism, fraud, armed robbery, indecent assault, wounding with intent... I should probably stop there before you start taking notes.”

“I done the Class A thing.”

Jim nearly choked on his granola bar. “Excuse me?”

“I done Class As. If I confess to that, they'll put me in Strangeways.”

“Not for small time supply.” Jim wiped a fleck of oat from his own cheek. “I won't help you get yourself into prison. You don't pay me enough to jeopardise my reputation.”

“I wasn't even meaning that, anyway,” Ste sulked.

He listened to Jim chewing a moment, and when the chewing paused, he was hardly surprised when his greasy solicitor tried to impart wise advice. “Listen, Ste: even if you did something terrible enough to warrant being moved to Cat A, you're not one of those guys. Prison is horrific. Every day is torture. Even with Brendan there, you wouldn't be safe. You wouldn't be happy. You'll be wishing with every fibre of your being that you were free, because nothing is worth sacrificing your freedom.”

Ste wiggled his toes in his shoes. His feet were cold. “I know,” he mumbled.

“I'll speak to them about getting you put in young offenders rather than adult prison.”

“Yay.”

“Thorn Cross has an excellent reputation for non-re-offence.” 

Ste folded his arms and hugged himself. “Right. Stay here. Got it.”

“That'll be nice, right?”

Ste made a disgusted sound. “No.”

“Well, I suppose I could negotiate with some of my contacts,” pondered Jim. “I can't promise anything, and this is short notice.” 

He took out his phone and started typing emails as Ste kept adjusting and readjusting his clothes.

~*~*~*~

The hearing was a long process, and it seemed Ste didn't really need to be present. He stood in the glass box, avoiding eye contact with Doug and the strangers who had come to gawk at him. According to Jim's contacts, he'd been given a judge very sympathetic to young men like himself. The judge himself was in his fifties, round and white-haired. He reminded Ste of Uncle Vernon.

After evidence was read and Jim put out a plea for bail, and Ste officiated his plea of 'Not Guilty', the judge called a break. Ste sat with a police officer in a holding cell outside the court room.

“In my professional opinion,” Jim began, entering the room with a flourish. “It is going rather well. Prosecution don't have a leg to stand on. The investigation into this whole incident is mainly based on circumstances that don't match up with the evidence.”

“So … No prison?”

“None. And definitely no Strangeways. And another thing – the judge wants to speak to you in private.”

“Eh? Is that allowed?”

“It's only a small-time case. He probably just wants to scare you.”

Ste was wary as Jim led him into the corridor, his officer trailing behind. “What's going on?” Ste demanded.

“Listen … there's something I forgot to mention. You're going to have to earn his sympathy.”

“What?”

“Look, just go in there, bat your eyelashes. Weep like an Oscar-winning actress. Use your _ass_ ets.”

“This meeting isn't allowed, is it?”

“Not technically speaking, but you've got about fifteen minutes, and there'll be an officer with you at all times.”

Ste was shoved toward a door.

“Go!” Jim demanded.

Ste knocked. The officer followed him in. 

The judge was sat behind an impressive mahogany desk, every inch the judicial stereotype Ste would imagine. A nameplate reading “The Right Honourable Judge Michael Dance” sat on the desk, and the man himself, sat on the opposite side, was nearly as wide as it. Judge Dance was eyeing him greedily. It made Ste feel nauseated.

“You should give us a moment,” the judge told the officer, and he stood to show the man out. Ste was certain a bit of cash changed hands. That was not good.

There was this odd feeling in his stomach. Apprehension and nerves. A touch of fear. Judge Dance smiled at him in a way that reminded him of the way Freddie had smiled at him. He was uncomfortable, to say the least. He wanted out.

“So, Mr. Hay,” the Judge said as he sat back down. His voice was thick and sweet, like treacle. Ste didn't like it.

“Judge,” Ste replied, having no idea how to respond.

“I think we need to discuss your … situation,” Judge Dance began. “It is unfortunate you've found yourself in this position, if you'll excuse the pun!” Dance laughed raucously at the pun Ste had apparently missed.

“Yeah. It was horrible.”

“So, what can I do for you? - or more importantly, what can you … _do_ … for me?”

“I get you...”

Dance shifted in his chair, and his pink tongue darted out to lick his lips. “See, this is such a small, irrelevant case. I could pass any judgement on it regardless of the evidence, and nobody would question it.”

“Right. I still don't follow.”

“With my power over your fate in mind, what do you think you could do for me, hmm? What might sway my hand to leniency, Mr. Hay?”

The apprehension turned to outright sickness. Ste was seething. “Okay. I think I understand what you're suggesting.”

Dance seemed delighted. “Well?”

Ste wondered if Dance thought him guilty, as though he wouldn't mind doing whatever it was Dance wanted doing since it was already his day job. A crazy, itching thought occurred to him. He had to know, he realised. He _had_ to know. Ste took a deep, calming breath.

“What if I don't want leniency?” he asked.

Dance faltered. “Wha-?”

“You heard.”

“What is it you want, then? Money? I'll have you know, boy, that I can send you to prison!”

“I want to go to Strangeways.”

Dance was silent for a moment. “You want t- I don't understand.”

“I want. To go. To Strangeways. Ask me any more questions, and I'm walking out of here.” _Shit, shit, shit._ He couldn't believe he'd actually said it. He couldn't believe he'd even begun to agree to Dance's indecent proposal. 

Dance regarded him. “I can do that,” he said. “But it will cost a lot more than the blow job I had in mind.”

Ste swallowed. Fuck it. What had his life been anyway? At least this way, he'd know. Ste nodded at Dance. There was bile burning the back of his throat. He was going to so calmly stoop so low – but he _had_ to know. He _had_ to. Would he be better off in prison with Brendan? Would it be worth the risk?

Ste had always thought a rape victim would remember the first penetration most vividly, but afterwards, Ste couldn't really remember it at all. It was the hand that gripped his shoulder that knocked him sick. The fingers curling into his hip that made him want wash and scrub and clean, clean, clean until his skin was raw. 

He was almost shaking, stood back in his box, the courtroom awaiting the results of his hearing. A very red Dance was deliberating, drawing out the dramatic pause.

“All things considered,” he addressed the court, “I see no reason why the defendant should be granted bail. He has a violent history, and his release in his current state will not be of benefit to the public.”

Jim turned in his chair to stare at him. Ste couldn't look him in the eye, whether or not he knew what Judge Dance had really been wanting to ask of him. 

Dance continued: “Furthermore, I have reports from Thorn Cross Young Offender's Institution that Mr. Hay has exhibited non-conformative and incredibly violent behaviour, including an attack on a fellow inmate that left him hospitalised overnight.”

The courtroom broke out into whispers. Doug was staring at Ste open-mouthed. Ste shrugged at him. He didn't bother to mouth 'Sorry' or anything.

“In addition,” Dance was saying, “Mr. Hay has shown no remorse for the behaviour with which he has been charged, or his subsequent behaviour during custody. As such, I whole-heartedly recommend incarceration in an adult prison until his case can reach the court, in the hope he might realise the track his decisions are pulling him along. Good afternoon, everybody. This court is now closed.”

Ste's thoughts were not of the possible outcomes of his court case, but only of _now, now, now. Brendan. Now._ He was cuffed and taken away, and pretty much bundled into the back of a van. He was sat on a bench in the security vehicle and cuffed to a loop.

They'd been driving for nearly an hour when a thought occurred to Ste that hadn't before.

Yeah. Brendan was going to _kill him_ for this – especially if he ever found out about the judge.

Ste couldn't help it, though. He smiled. He was pretty sure it would definitely be totally worth it.


	5. The Importance of Being Earnest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ste is taken to Strangeways. The plan shows its holes.

There's a feeling he can't quite define boiling in the pit of his stomach. He had an inking it might be regret. The turrets of Strangeways rose up before him, tiny barred windows with slivers of orange light peeking out formed uniform patterns through the brickwork; the height of the towers stretching up into the startlingly blue sky. Further away and rising up even higher, the landmark of Strangeways watchtower, staple of the Manchester landscape, stood silent. The shutters on its windows were closed.

In contrast, the walls were stony and grey inside. There was chipped paint hanging off the bricks. Framed photos and articles about previous inmates who had been executed in the prison years ago, plus a few on their current, high-profile inmates, decorated the winding corridor leading to an examination room and check-in desk. There was even an article on the 1990 inmates' riot and seige. Everything was built to be bigger than him. Everything was giant. The prison was old, and the architect had designed every inch of the place with power and intimidation in mind.

For the first time, Ste allowed himself to acknowledge that he was genuinely scared shitless. He could hear a muffled voice in the back of his mind that was probably Amy's. She wasn't exactly coherent, but Ste, as usual, wasn't really listening to her good advice properly. He was too busy thinking about the strip-search and full examination he was about to undergo. Oh, and the prison thing, too. Ste was very much thinking about that.

The place was old, and the constant presence of bars, gates and ironwork unnerved Ste. The wings were stark white, long and narrow, stretching the length of two aeroplanes and ending with solid wall. Either side, the cells were lined up over four storeys, and metal stairs and concrete gangways connected them all together. The ceiling arched to a point, and windows were set into the slopes so that prisoners would be able to see the sky.

The officer that was dragging Ste onward, through a locked gate and down a long line of cells, told him the layout of this building was based on a star. In the centre of the star was a large atrium, where all the wings could be accessed from. The other building was built in the shape of a crucifix. The central atrium present in both meant prisoners could be observed at all times, despite them being on different wings. He also explained that the 'watchtower' was actually a ventilation tower, despite popular belief.

The space that stretched the length of the wing served as a dining area, with rows of tables like a school dinner hall. Further away toward the other end was a social area, a TV in a cage mounted high on the wall, a few tables and chairs for games and stuff and a set of double-doors – currently wide open – that led to an outside yard. There was a pool table with snooker balls still scattered over it, abandoned mid-game. 

The place was dead. Ste assumed everybody was outside, and as he was taken toward a set of metal steps, clear plastic bag of clothes, toothbrush, soap and shampoo in cuffed hand, he heard brief snatches of deep male voices carrying inside. The officers refused to remove the cuffs until he was inside his second-floor cell. 

“You missed exercise today,” the one who had bothered to speak to him said. He sounded like was trying to be kind. “At least something went your way, right?”

Ste raised his head, then tilted it to the side. He could feel how uncomfortable the young officer was under his stony gaze.

The officer cleared his throat. “Yeah … Erm … Well. I should go,” he finished weakly. He left, the older one sniggering behind him as they made their way back to wherever they were supposed to be. 

There was a tiny, iron bed frame in the cell, on which there was a mattress so thin it could have been mistaken for a thick duvet. There was one pillow and two blankets. A white plastic table folded down from the wall opposite the bed, and a small window, crossed with bars, was set high into the wall. The place was grubby. The floor was bare concrete. The toilet was stained and there was no screen to cover it, the tiny sink was covered in rust. The door to the cell was heavy iron, and Ste could barely move it.

He'd changed his mind. He wanted out. He needed to call Jim, and he needed to get out. It couldn't be too late yet, could it? He hugged himself and tried to focus his mind, but his breathing was too quick and his blood was so noisy he couldn't hear himself think. His head throbbed as caffeine withdrawal began to kick in, and now more than ever he was certain he could kill a man in exchange for cold lager. 

Footsteps began to thunder in the cavity downstairs. Ste wondered what he was supposed to do. Should he go downstairs and introduce himself? Should he wait here for somebody to come and see if there was anybody new? At young offenders', they'd had group sessions and inductions. Was he expected to survive being thrown to the jury-decreed deadly lions instead? Should he wander out alone and see if he could spot Brendan? There were over a thousand prisoners in this building alone. He'd have to begin searching.

In the end, Ste was sat on the bed on his own, clutching his bag, for nearly three hours. The sun had begun to set, and the sky was dark blue with dusk by the time a very tall and very wide man appeared in the doorway. He had a shaved head, a very round belly, and his wedding finger was missing. He stared at Ste.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“New.”

The inmate entered the room properly, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I'm Dave.”

“Ste.” Ste stood and held out his hand, but Dave ignored it. He caught Ste looking at the stub of his finger.

“My wife cut it off,” he explained, “a couple of minutes before I cut off her head.”

Ste laughed. “Funny.”

Dave's expression didn't change.

Ste felt awkward, and his stomach twinged. “Right,” he tried. “So … erm … Nice to meet you, but I'm not staying long.”

“They don't send you here if you're not staying long,” Dave pointed out. He was scratching at the stub, like the itch would never go away. “Just don't get in my way.”

“I won't,” Ste promised. “But … can I ask you something? Just one thing?”

Dave shrugged. Ste took it as a cue to continue.

“Which cell is Brendan Brady in?”

Dave laughed. “Brady?”

“Yeah.”

“What you wanna know about him for?”

“He was my boss on the outside.”

“He won't be of any use to you in here.”

Ste tried for nonchalant. “I may as well say 'hi', just in case.”

“You can try. But seriously, he won't be of any use to you in here.”

Ste tensed his jaw. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because,” replied Dave, and turned away. Ste was certain he'd heard him chuckling as he did so.

Ste's stomach dropped. Was Brendan okay? Of course he was, Ste assured himself. Brendan would be fine. He then jumped out of his skin, a loud drone piercing through the bricks and mortar and shaking Ste's bones. It lasted only a second, and Ste recovered quickly. In a moment he had dashed outside, and he could see all the other inmates filing down gangways and stairs and down to the ground floor. Ste followed suit. 

A few people nudged at him, and another attempted to trip him. Whispers of 'new boy' followed him, and the facts of his crimes. It seemed news travelled fast. Biting hisses of ' _whore_ ' and ' _Queer_ ' and ' _ladyboy_ ' began to nip at his ears. He didn't know if it was because they genuinely knew what he was on reprimand with, or because he was small and skinny.

The traffic on the stairs came to a standstill, Ste half way down and sandwiched between two larger men. The one behind him pressed into his back, stale breath brushed his ear, and the man whispered: “ _I bet you'd look good in a dress._ ” He was clearly amused by Ste's shudder. Ste felt a hand brushing over his hip, feeling his stomach. He tried not to react. This was not the place to start a fight, even if he could smell the clammy breath of Judge Dance, feel the clawing violation in the depths of his brain.

He was so tense he thought he was going to break. Bile burned his throat. His mouth was dry and cottony. The hand wouldn't stop exploring. Ste couldn't breathe he was so rigid. The inmate seemed to enjoy the fact Ste didn't want this. ' _Aren't you a good boy?_ ' he murmured. ' _Not even a fuss..._ '

Thankfully the traffic started moving again as the flow from the floor below thinned. Ste slipped away as quickly as he could, putting as much distance between himself and those hands and that breath as possible. He felt sick. The bile was rising again. He needed to throw up, even though there was nothing in his stomach to bring up. Eyes were on him everywhere, disgruntled voices were fed up of him pushing forward. A muscled man with golden, hairless skin brushed him aside like dust, and his back thudded into the solid wall behind him. 

It didn't stop him for long,though. He didn't want the man from earlier – hell, he didn't even know who it was – to catch up to him. Ste kept moving, his eyes trying to glimpse a familiar head covered in dark hair, both on top and on it chin. The more Ste had thought about it, the more he was convinced Brendan would have re-grown the beard. Ste had never even had a chance to touch it last time.

Turns out, the horrific sound that had shaken him had simply been the indication that dinner was ready, not that there was an emergency warranting such an horrendous noise be made. Ste wasn't hungry, but got in line and accepted a bowl of weak, lumpy stew anyway. His stomach growled as he wandered through the tables, pretending to find somewhere to sit when really he was trying to see the faces of the men around him without actually looking at them. It was no good. He couldn't see Brendan. 

A man not too much older than Ste stopped him and invited him to sit near him. Ste decided it was best to make friends rather than put peoples' backs up, so nodded and took a place on the end of a bench. The table was full of younger men, possibly all under the age of 30. The one who had invited him to sit down was called Nabeel, and he explained that the younger ones liked to stick together. “How old are you?” he asked Ste.

“Twenty-one,” Ste replied.

“Aww,” the group chorused, chiding him. The bloke sat opposite him kicked his foot. “Baby,” he grinned.

Ste scowled. “Shut up,” he pouted. 

The group didn't seem so bad. He couldn't quite gather all their names, but other than Nabeel there was a Matthew, a Clint, an Alexander, a Marius and a young black man with more muscle than anything that they called 'Precious'. The other names Ste couldn't remember or just didn't hear. They didn't ask probing questions and they didn't seem overly interested in making him prove himself. _This could be okay_ , Ste thought.

Clint looked ex-army. About fifteen minutes after Ste had sat down, he'd turned his gaze to him. “Ever been in an institution before?” he asked.

“Young offenders when I left school,” shrugged Ste.

“Anything you wanna know about the Big Boys' Club?”

“Well, I do have one question – more personal, really, though.”

The others listened. “Oh?” prompted Clint.

“Which cell is Brendan Brady in?” Ste asked, trying not to sound quite so hopeful as he felt.

“Who?”

“Brendan Brady – tall, hairy. Irish?”

The men around the table shrugged and looked at each other. Alexander cleared his throat. “No idea who you're talking about. Must be on a different wing or something.”

“Oh. So … can we talk to people in the other wings?”

“Certain wings mix at exercise or recess. You might see him in the gym, I dunno. He owe you summit?”

Ste nodded. “Something like that. Yeah.”

“I'll ask about a bit, if you want. But you'll owe me a favour.”

“Sure,” smiled Ste. “Sure thing.”

The horrible sound rang out again, and they took their bowls and cups and cutlery to be cleaned. As the others filed back up the stairs, Ste realised something very important: he had no idea where his cell was. He remembered the floor, but he hadn't counted or checked his number or anything. Shit. He lingered, waiting for the initial crush of inmates to disperse in case there was a repeat of earlier, and followed the last few stragglers. 

He found an empty cell that might have been his. The clothes were still in the clear plastic bag, so he assumed this must be the right one. He sank down onto the bed and put his head in his hands. He really hadn't thought this through, had he? The judge had been right; he didn't want this. Not really. He was better off anywhere but here. Nobody even seemed to know who Brendan was, never mind where his cell was supposed to be. 

Later, as the doors slammed and were locked one by one, Ste lay in his bed in his itchy, worn pyjamas and stared at the smooth expanse of white ceiling above him. This was a mistake, he realised. A stupid, stupid mistake.

~*~*~*~

The sun was out the next morning, so Ste and the others were told to 'play outside'. The exercise yard was a tarmac triangle, built into one of the spokes of the prison's star. It served as outdoor space for prisoners on either side of the yard, so Ste was eager to get out. He found it difficult to just wander around, though, as the group who had invited him onto their table the night before insisted on him sticking with them.

“I just like some 'me' time,” Ste lied.

Nabeel waved the idea away. “You will get plenty of that later,” he assured him. “Talk with us. Strength in numbers.”

So Ste found himself sat on the hard ground with them, his back against the fence that separated them from the patrol road. The only grass in the entire facility was just on the other side of the chicken wire, taunting them. Ste quietly watched all the inmates as secretly as he could. He couldn't see Brendan. He'd have to go to a communal building as some point, as the yard on the other side of E Wing was not connected to A. He would have to find somebody who knew Brendan to take a message or something.

Wherever Ste walked, the other prisoners had taken to batting at his head. It didn't hurt, it was just annoying. Nabeel said it was because he was new, and they'd stop in a day or so. Nabeel seemed genuine, which worried Ste. He didn't think he'd be able to trust anybody in this place, but Nabeel gave every appearance of being a good guy who just wanted Ste to ease into the prison life. Ste tried not to like him, or Clint, or Alexander. Even Precious seemed approachable enough. Ste didn't like it one bit, but didn't let on.

Two days later, Ste was sat in his usual spot on the paved yard, his back to the chicken wire fence as he surveyed the other inmates. He'd asked a select few people where Brendan was, but Ste found that either they'd never heard of him, they'd heard of him on TV, or they'd just laugh and walk away. It made Ste want to punch things, and the unnerving feeling that he was constantly being watched by someone wasn't helping.

He couldn't believe how easy it was to ignore the groping on the stairs. His mind seemed to switch off as soon as it realised it was happening. Ste figured if he ignored them, they'd get bored. But the feeling of being watched kept creeping over him, and it was beginning to become a worry. He'd asked Nabeel about it, but he'd shrugged and told him he was probably paranoid. Besides, the officers wouldn't do anything unless he had concrete evidence he was being 'preyed on'. 

'Preyed on' were Nabeel's words, not Ste's. His paranoia cranked up tenfold and he kept his mouth shut about Brendan from that point onward. Sometimes, though, Ste was convinced he could hear Brendan's laugh. It would be far away, almost like the ghost of the sound, but Ste was sure he could hear it; a snatch sardonic laughter that his ears were probably making up.

Ste despaired. His life was crushing him. His decisions had torn him away from the last thing he really had in the world: his freedom. He could have easily proven himself with Jim on his side. Alone in his cell, Ste began to cry. The tears were hot and shameful, and he choked himself in his pillow to try and make them stop. He was sure this was Brendan's fault. If Brendan had let him visit him, he'd know exactly where he was.

After making the quickest recovery he could, Ste set about washing his face. He pulled off his t shirt so that it wouldn't get wet and threw it onto the bed, then used what little warm water he could tempt from the tap wipe away the tear marks on his cheeks. The back of his neck prickled, and Ste spun on the spot.

A tall, lanky, gaunt man with thinned, grey hair was stood in the doorway. He leaned casually, his pointy features cutting sharp shadows over his cheeks. “Don't stop on my account,” he said, his eyes glittering black holes beneath silver eyebrows. He sounded like he might be from around Birmingham. Ste wondered if his hands were one of the many he'd felt touching him. He shivered.

Ste turned away, and pulled his shirt back over his head. Without looking at the man, he pushed past him and made his way out onto the gangway and down into the social area. The man followed, and caught his arm. 

“I was just joking with you,” he tried. “Here, let me talk to you. Calm down, boy. Come over here. Let me talk to you.” He pulled at Ste's arm, trying to pull him aside.

Ste didn't struggle. He put his face right into his assailant's and glared. “Let go of me.” He kept his voice as low and as dangerous as he could. 

“I'm trying to help,” the man replied. He sounded amused. “Come over here. Talk to me.”

“Help me with what?” Ste asked.

He was yanked again, and in his surprise he overbalanced. With a twist of his arm, he managed to pull free, and using his skinny physique to his advantage darted through a crowd watching an arm wrestle and headed to the doors leading to the yard. 

_Fuck_. That had been scary. Ste's heart was going faster than a drum roll. He didn't stop running until he hit the fence at the far side, the one that looked out onto the patrol road and a large, red-brick building opposite. His breath came in quick, heavy heaves, and he sank to the ground with his back to the fence. The scent of Judge Dance's breath tickled his nostrils, and Ste felt dizzy. 

Ste turned and got onto his knees, trying to get his breath back as he clung to the fence. A supply van chugged past on the patrol road, and Ste watched the turning of its wheels to focus his mind. He wanted to cry again, and a choked sob escaped. Hoping nobody heard, he covered his mouth with his hand. To make things worse – perhaps his mind was trying to comfort him, or maybe torture him – he could hear a very Brendan-like guffaw somewhere far away. 

He strained his ears, trying to focus on the sound. It replayed in his head so many times he couldn't be sure whether it was real or imaginary. He replayed it until it didn't even sound like Brendan any more. Ste raised his head. He could make out the exercise yard of the other building; the one the officer had told him was built in the shape of a cross. The men in that yard were too far away to make out any distinct features, and it wasn't until a crowd of them began to disperse that Ste realised something.

It was a harsh realisation, and it cut deep into his heart. He could _see_ him. The swagger, the faint sound that resonated the timbre of his voice. He was _there_. He was in the wrong building. _No. No. No. No. NO._ Ste didn't know how to get to him. He panicked. Was there anything that would connect them to the other building? Was he allowed there? How would he talk to him? How would he let Brendan know that he was there for him? 

An iron grip closed on Ste's wrist, and he was spun around. He stared into the dark eyes of the silver-haired man. The expression that met his was not a happy one. Ste swallowed, hard. There was a group of men behind the silver-haired one, crowding and watching. Blocking the view. 

“Don't,” Ste murmured. “Please.”

“Call it an induction gift,” replied the silver-haired prisoner. 

“No.”

The fence shook violently as he was thrown against it and held there. “Should have stayed with your little friends,” he chuckled. A finger hooked below his chin and forced his head up. “You're very pretty,” he said. “We'll have to get you in a dress eventually. But for now, you'll do.”

The crowd were salivating in anticipation. None of them were going to help him. They wanted this to happen, and they were openly going to get off on watching it. Ste was ashamed of how much he was shaking. The grip on his wrist was tightening painfully, and a foot kicked the back his knee to make him kneel. The ground was hard under his knees.

The silver-haired man grinned down at him, and began to undo the ties on his joggers. 

Ste knew begging was useless, so instead, he screamed.

But still, he knew that nobody would come.


	6. Deals

The tarmac was wet. Ste remembered the feeling of it on his skin; down his forearm, against his cheek. The tarmac was wet. The world itself was black, even though he was sure his eyes had been open. The distant sound of jeering men was muffled as his ears tried to block everything out. He was returning to himself, his vision blearily coming back to life. Nobody was touching him.

The grey-clothed figures around were all scuffling and fighting, backing away. There was a yell, something that sounded like wild animal, and the fence was shaking violently. Ste raised his head. The men around him were moving too quickly for him to process. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried again.

The wetness of the tarmac had been blood. It was everywhere; on the fence, the ground, staining prison uniforms so that the men lumbering away looked like gored zombies. The silver-haired man was lying on the floor six feet from where he'd stood a moment ago. He was breathing, but his eyes were shut. Ste sat up. The commotion was slowing, and in the middle of it all … was Brendan.

He looked wild, and Ste's heart nearly stopped. The blood seemed to mainly be Brendan's: arms and legs torn to ribbons from vaulting the two barbed-wire-topped fences that had separated them. The inmates were wary of taking him on, despite him yelling at them to come and get him instead if they were that desperate. Guards were yelling, and Ste couldn't move for the shock. 

Finally, Brendan looked at him. There was anger, relief and concern; and possessiveness, too. He stumbled to where Ste was still on the ground and sank down beside him to take hold of his wrist, offering a closed form of comfort. “You okay?” he asked.

Ste couldn't answer. He just stared.

“Steven,” Brendan tried. His eyes were furtively glancing to and from Ste's face.

Ste had lost his voice. “Brundffnnn,” was all that his mouth could mangle. He reached out an hand, floppy with the lack of adrenaline, and touched one of the slices in Brendan's arm. It was the first time Brendan seemed to notice it, and in noticing it, he felt it. His face became a tight grimace.

“It's okay, Steven. They're gonna drag me away in a minute so I need you to tell me you're gonna be all right, yeah?”

He didn't seem concerned with why he was in prison, and Ste was grateful for that. No difficult questions yet. He managed to nod his head before a sea of black and white uniformed officers surged over them. 

And like just like that, Brendan was gone again.

~*~*~*~

Ste was in and out of the prison hospital ward in less than fifteen minutes. They asked him one or two questions, ticked off a clipboard then sent him back to his cell to 'sleep off the shock'. It wasn't a 'proper rape', so he'd probably just be fine. They gave him some anti-depressants to take back, just in case he was 'affected' by the 'gang of bullies' he'd been faced with.

He'd asked how Brendan was doing, but everybody ignored him. They clearly felt he was wasting their time by merely existing, and Ste began to gain an understanding of the 1990 rioters: they were still _people_. Did these officers not get that human beings react better to being treated like human beings, rather than stray dogs that they wished they could put down?

He sat in his cell, avoiding everybody in the only way he knew how. He was expected to just carry on like nothing happened, but every time somebody walked past his cell, he tensed. Every time he heard a loud laugh, he flinched. Somebody further down had knocked loudly on one of the metal doors, and Ste had sat there, frozen, for almost a minute before realising he was safe. Sat in his bed, Ste hugged his knees.

At dinner, everybody was looking at him. They weren't doing it overtly, but Ste could feel the stolen glances hopping in his direction. Some spoke in hushed voices, and he was sure they were talking about him. Deciding how to get him next. He maintained his composure long enough to wolf down his food as he walked. All he had to do was collect the food from the hatch, stand still for a moment as he ate, then put the plates into the dirty dishes. He was done. He returned to his cell, keeping his head up despite the muttering and the glancing. 

He stayed in his cell after that. He skipped breakfast the next day, despite Nabeel's efforts to coax him downstairs. He skipped exercise, too, and was punished by having his visiting rights removed – not that he actually had any visitors, for all the difference it made. By lunch time his stomach was rumbling, but he couldn't bring himself to get out of bed. An officer came to see him after the other prisoners had eaten and left, asking him what he thought he was playing at.

Ste shrugged. “Not hungry,” he lied.

“You think you're better than prison food?” the officer demanded. He had short-back-and-sides, and held himself like he'd been in the army.

“No, I'm just not hungry,” Ste replied.

“So, you won't be hungry at dinner, either?”

“I don't know, do I? It's not dinner yet.”

The door was slammed shut and locked. Ste was grateful.

~*~*~*~

It was the thought of Brendan that finally dragged him out of bed and out of his cell. It had been three days. Officers had eventually started bringing scraps of food to him, but nothing like what he'd get if he'd just pull himself together and go downstairs.

Ste went straight outside the moment the doors opened, and headed for the fence at the back of the yard. The one he could see Brendan from. As he approached, a feeling of dread pitted his stomach. He felt sick. He could see the seemingly-innocent patch of tarmac, devoid now of blood, where he had been lying. Where they'd cornered him. He avoided that stretch of fence, standing ten feet to the left of it. He could still see it in the corner of his vision, though.

Between him and the other yard, there was a fence, a thirty-foot lawn, a patrol road, another lawn, and another fence. The tops of the fences were a tangled mess of angry wires; some of it barbed, the rest of it twinkling in the sun, light bouncing off the sharpened razors welded to its length. Ste thought of Brendan, how he'd thrown himself through two rounds of that horrific trap to defend him. It must have left scars.

Squinting, Ste tried to make out the prisoners in the other yard. He couldn't see Brendan. Frustrated, Ste turned his back. Everybody in his own yard seemed to quickly look away from him, and become very interested in their own conversations and carefully avoiding his gaze. Ste felt like screaming. What did they want? What were they after?

A group of them, about fifty feet away, suddenly all got up, looking excited by the prospect of something they'd decided on. Ste felt his blood turn cold. They were moving in his direction. What should he do? Should he scale the fence? He gripped the metal chicken wire, ready to turn and climb if he needed to.

Then the group passed him by without looking, and carried on toward the basket ball hoop. Ste let out a heavy breath, and his heart started beating properly again. He was fine. Everything was fine. Nothing was going to happen. He turned back to the other yard, and tried to spot Brendan again. 

There was a lone figure, sat with his left side leaning on the fence. He was mostly shadowed and very difficult to properly make out, but Ste could just about see the white wrapped around his arms. _Brendan_. He didn't want to call to him and draw unwanted attention to himself. The muttering that followed him everywhere was bad enough without more fuel for the fire. Instead, Ste sank to the ground, his eyes never leaving the hunched figure, and watched him from afar.

It took until just before lunch for Brendan to realise that Ste was there. There was a change in him. He sat straighter. He appeared stronger. He raised a bandaged hand, and loosely held onto the fence. _Hello_.

Ste did the same back, just touching the fence, mirroring the action. _Hello to you, too_. It was like waving, but more secret. Ste wanted to say so much more. He wanted to ask how he was, thank him, tell him he loved him and needed him. Brendan's forehead bowed and touched the fence. They were so close, but Ste felt as though they'd never been further away. He felt impotent. They couldn't even communicate with each other, let alone speak properly. Let alone _touch_.

The thought of Jim swam greasily into Ste's mind. Jim might be able to help. Jim had said, after all, that they had to make sure he was safe. Brendan had proved that he was able to keep Ste safe. Ste had proved that he was a target for gangs. 

How could he communicate to Brendan that he'd be back soon? He was saved the predicament by the buzzers for lunch going, both for Brendan and for Ste. They headed their separate ways, and Ste dutifully joined the lunch queue for the first time in days. He sat with Nabeel and his motley crew, but didn't say anything. They didn't say anything to him, either. They were letting him have his space. Ste began to wonder if he they had all been through the same thing, except nobody had been there to save them when the gang had gathered. 

Ste got to the phone as quickly as he could. “Jim, hi. It's Ste.”

“ _Afternoon, Ste. I heard what happened the other day._ ”

“Yeah. Great. Listen, I need you to get them to move me to a different wing.”

“ _... There'll be no prizes for guessing which one?_ ”

“Nope.”

“ _I'll see what I can do. But there are **absolutely no** promises. I'll come and see you later. If not, then tomorrow. Okay?_ ”

“Brilliant. Yes. See you soon. Thanks, Jim.”

“ _You're welcome, Ste. Bye._ ”

Ste said 'bye' in return, then hung up. Buoyed by the conversation, he returned to the yard. He stopped part way there. There was a feeling creeping up inside him. Dread, he assumed. He couldn't take his eyes off _that_ spot. He swallowed the bile that rose, and with legs that felt like they were being dragged through a swamp, he returned to his position behind the fence. Brendan was already there, talking to a man sat beside him with his back to Ste. He was looking at Brendan's wounds. He was taking care of him.

The jealousy was colder and stronger than Ste could have predicted. Oh my God, he was _livid_. How _dare_ he? And how could Brendan … Well, he hadn't expected Brendan to be as celibate as the Pope in prison, but the faceless man – who probably didn't have looks that were even a patch on Ste – was being genuinely _affectionate_ and he was _trying to take care of him_ , and _Brendan was letting him_.

Ste wanted to throw the stranger onto the razor wire and jump on him until there was no more blood left to squeeze out. He wanted to punch and punch and punch until he stopped moving. He wanted to slap Brendan so hard, Cheryl would feel it. He wanted to scale this goddamned fence and give those two pieces of shit a piece of his mind.

And then, Brendan looked up, and he saw Ste was sat there, and everything melted away with the change Ste's presence brought upon Brendan – the lighter, stronger way he held himself; the way he became more animated. Ste was sure he'd smiled to him. 

The other guy was just somebody to take advantage of to stave off the loneliness for a bit. He didn't compare to Ste. Ste was still Brendan's everything. Ste was a fool to doubt it, just because of a flash of jealousy. The jealousy was still there, though. He wanted nothing more than to switch places, to be the one examining the cuts, tutting over them, redressing them. Kissing them better. But a pale substitute had been found in the mean time (and pale was the word. Ste thought he must be one of Brendan's countrymen to appear so pasty,) to be a warm pair of hands.

They couldn't communicate so far away, so there was nothing else much to do other than periodically acknowledge each other's presence. Brendan's friend seemed to pander after him; bringing him snacks, a book, a board game so that Brendan wouldn't have to get up and get it himself. He didn't even question Brendan's unwillingness to move, just did as he was told. A total prison bitch. 

At this distance, it was hard to make out faces and facial expressions, but Ste felt he could read Brendan's blurry features. Amusement and smugness, annoyance when he was being commanding and giving out his 'requests'. He insulted and degraded and patronised his bitch from a distance, and Ste had a feeling it was all for Ste's benefit. The poor guy didn't seem used to such treatment.

After the evening meal, Brendan didn't come back. Ste didn't hang around for too long. He didn't like that it was getting gloomy outside, and the cold didn't help. He sat on his bed, staring at the metal door, wondering if Jim would come and see him that night, or if he'd have to wait until the next day. He wasn't sure if he could stand another day. Ste's insides writhed, aching. A lot of this was his fault. He knew that. But in a way, it had worked. They'd found each other. They just needed to actually get near to each other. 

A shadow lingered near his door, and Ste clutched the plastic dinner knife he'd snapped into a point beneath his blanket. The shadow didn't seem to be moving on. It was large, but short. Possibly Dave, who had no interest in him beyond their initial meeting. It could be Precious, if the height of his shadow was distorted by the angle of the light. 

The profile of a short, quite fat man appeared in the doorway for a moment, staring at something on his arm, then was gone again. Ste let out a sigh of relief. He'd stopped because whatever was on his arm was bothering him. Nothing to do with Ste. He kicked out his blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed. 

He wanted to sleep. He was exhausted. Looking over his shoulder all the time was tiring him out. He needed rest, but he did not dare fall asleep before all the cell doors were locked for the night. It was like dressing in a suit made of raw steaks and jumping into a pool of starved sharks. 

Ste splashed cold water onto his face, thinking of his lovely warm bath at home and wondering when he was going to see it again. He hated the peeling paint here, and longed for the homely peel of his own wallpaper hanging from the walls of the flat. He even missed the horrid old couch he'd been meaning to replace. He closed his eyes, remembering Leah and Lucas and Brendan, living together in their little bubble, before Kevin had sold them out and torn them apart for a bit of money.

Ste tried not to think about Kevin. He hated that doe-eyed weasel more than he could describe. He hated him the same as he hated Walker – but hated neither of them with the same unwavering intensity as he hated Seamus. 

He was brought out of his reverie with a jump. With his eyes closed, he'd bowed his had a little too far, and his forehead had touched the icy surface of his mirror. The reflection that looked back at him was already gaunt and haunted. His skin was pale, and around his eyes were dark circles from stress and lack of sleep. How had Brendan recognised him? He looked like an echo of who had been when he was happy.

It would be the next afternoon before Ste finally saw Jim. Jim looked as though he hadn't slept particularly well, either.

“How are you?” Jim asked.

“Surviving,” Ste replied.

“You look terrible.”

“As do you.” Ste took his seat at the table opposite Jim. He felt other prisoners sending glances in his direction and tried his best to ignore it.

“About what you asked … I had a few words with a few people.”

“Will I like the answer?”

“They're worried about how Brendan might react should anything like this happen again. He nearly killed somebody.”

“So? If they didn't want to be punished, they shouldn't have attacked me.”

“Ste...” Jim tried, trying to find the words. “They consider Brendan a loose canon. He takes the fact he's a lifer to heart and knows he has nothing left to lose. And relationships in prison … they're not the same as on the outside. It's about power, about status. He'll be a different person in here, and you might not like him – and if you don't like him, he can't let you dump him. He'd never let you end it. He'd never let you go.”

Ste considered this carefully, biting his lip as he stared at the wood grain on the table, thinking. “It's what I want,” he decided. “Please. It's what I want.”

Jim nodded. “They'll need some kind of proof that Brendan will be better behaved if they let him have this – and they will take you away from him the moment he acts out of turn.”

“They'll use me as reward and punishment. I understand. This is still what I want.”

Jim was biting his thumbnail. “I'll see what I can do, but I still can't promise anything. They'll be thinking more about Brendan than you, so I need to press the fact you can't look after yourself.”

“Oi!”

“You can't, Ste. They ganged up on you and nobody except Brendan did a damn thing. It's lucky he heard you scream. He didn't even know you were there.”

“You spoke to him?”

Jim nodded. “Briefly. This morning.”

“H-How is he?” Ste dared to ask.

“Better than I've seen him, even with all the bandages.”

“Did he ask about me?”

“He asked how you'd ended up here. He seemed to think it was my fault.”

Ste bit his lip, a little sheepish. “It wasn't.”

“Hopefully you might get the chance to tell him that yourself.” Jim rubbed his tired eyes. “Honestly, Ste. This is such a mess. I can't even tell you how I think things are going to go. They want to slap ABH on you after your stunt in young offenders'.”

Ste scowled. “That guy attacked me first.”

“It's not like he walked away from it, is it?”

Ste shrugged. Jim then talked a little about his conversations with Amy, but she was still unmoving about bringing the kids to see him. She hadn't even told then he was in prison, so he could wait until he got out if he wanted to see them, she said. It wasn't anything less than Ste had expected of her. Jim ended their session by telling him he was working on getting the court date fixed, then he left again. 

Ste returned to his fence, avoiding _that_ spot, and settled down to wait for Brendan to come back. After a while, he felt eyes on him, and he raised his head to see Brendan's prison bitch staring at him from behind the fences. He looked small and defeated, and his arms were crossed over his chest, but Ste knew he was probably being sent death glares. So, the prison bitch had worked it out. Hopefully he would back off Brendan now.

He didn't though. When Brendan returned, the bitch fawned over him more than ever. He was eager to run around after him, eager to please, eager to choke Brendan with his affection. There was no need for Brendan to lift a finger. Brendan remained indifferent. He was reading a book, occasionally glancing up to see if Ste was still there. Ste remembered Brendan liked to read, and toward the end, Ste had managed to persuade Brendan to read aloud to him sometimes – as long as it wasn't the Bible. Ste couldn't stand hearing the Bible. He much preferred Leah and Lucas' watered-down kiddie versions they brought home from school.

The sun was warm, and Ste was quite enjoying being outdoors. With his attention mainly on Brendan, the rest of the prisoners seemed to just melt away. It wasn't until there was a hand on his shoulder that he remembered where he was. Ste jumped a mile high and sprang to his feet like the release of a tightened coil. He wildly looked into the eyes of three confused prison guards, one by one, and finally relaxed. “What?” he asked.

“Steven Hay?”

“Yeah?”

“Come with us.”

They led him off, and Ste threw a glance over his shoulder. Brendan wasn't looking. Heart in his mouth, he followed the officers. They felt the need to cuff him as they approached the security gate leading to the central atrium of the prison. He was then led down a winding corridor to a large wooden door.

On the other side of the door was what looked to Ste like an interrogation room. Plain walls, with a metal table and a plastic chair either side of it. One of Ste's hands was freed, and the other was cuffed to a loop on the table leg. The officers retreated to corners of the room, and Ste waited. After what could have been about ten minutes, the wooden door opened again, and in walked a balding man in his fifties wearing an expensive-looking suit.

The man didn't look at him. He got himself settled into his chair, shuffled some papers from his briefcase and took out a pen. “Steven Hay?” he asked, still not looking.

“Yep.”

The man sighed. “I'm Governor Salisbury.” Finally he looked up. “I need to talk to you about Brady.”

Ste swallowed. “What about him?”

This made Salisbury chuckle. “I hear from your barrister that you want to be moved to his wing, and I'm here to bargain with you to give you what you want.”

Ste nodded slowly. “What kind of bargain?”

“Well … Brady has been … problematic.” Salisbury smoothed down an eyebrow. “His temper has been … unpredictable. I personally find him quite affable. I've spoken to him at length about you, and about what happened the other day. About moving you across. I find he's different to the others – and if this was anyone else, I doubt I'd have entertained the idea.”

“So …?”

Salisbury cleared his throat. “He's getting feral. There's no other way to describe it. The other inmates are terrified of him. They don't even comment on the fact he's non-heterosexual. He sends alarm bells ringing in all corners of my mind, and I probably shouldn't like him, but hey-” He shrugged nonchalantly. “-what can you do?”

“So...?” Ste repeated, dragging out the sound a little longer.

“I want to make a deal with you. If Brady carries on as he is for much longer, he's looking at permanent solitary – that's twenty-three hours a day in a concrete block, and one hour walking in the yard after all the prisoners have gone in. He hasn't killed anybody inside yet, but looking at his past victims, his temper was obviously the deciding factor, and his temper is getting shorter and shorter. But then, a few days ago happened, and suddenly … not a peep from him.”

“Right. I see. And the deal?”

Salisbury sat back in his chair, regarding Ste carefully. “A solitary block would need to be built especially for him. This will cost a lot of money. Why should I not, instead, claim we are overcrowded and need to double-up a few cells? It's half true, so nobody will question it too closely. A short-term petty criminal like you would be easy fodder for doubling up during a temporary stay. And when I've gone to these lengths, I need some things from you, too.”

“Such as?”

“Well, there's the obvious. Keep him in line. Look out for him. Help him behave. He crosses the line, then it's you we'll put in solitary for a few days, understand?”

Ste bit his lip, but nodded anyway.

“Good. He understands this, too. But what he doesn't know is … I want information.”

“Information?”

Salisbury cleared his throat uncomfortably. The real reason he was being lenient. “We have reason to suspect – judging from the information provided by DI Gabriel Walker's investigation – that Brady's victim count may have been higher than the five we know of. The Cheshire Police are very eager to find out more, and are pressuring me to access such information.”

“He won't tell me anything.”

“I'm sure he would if he knew we'd take you away from him.”

“I'm a short-term petty criminal. I'd be taken away from him sooner or later. He knows that.”

Salisbury nodded. 

“If I'm gonna be a rat, I need personal gain. There are two people being manipulated in this deal, y'know, not just Brendan.”

Salisbury tilted his head to the side, a slight smile pulling at his lips. “Well, well, well. What is it you want from me, then?”

Ste hadn't exactly thought about it. He could bargain for anything he wanted, he supposed. Brendan would have known this was coming. Brendan would have thought about it beforehand. “I haven't decided yet,” Ste coolly replied. “I'm sure I'll think of something.”

“I want our bargain settled before any movements begin,” insisted Salisbury.

“Then how about we set ourselves an exchange agreement? I find out information in exchange for something of equal value to it, as and when I please.”

Salisbury inhaled deeply, then let the air out slowly. Ste watched him, waiting. The Governor's eyes narrowed slightly. “And that way, you will be less indebted to me should you find out nothing,” he pointed out.

Ste nodded. He hadn't thought of it that way but, yes, it was true. If he promised to find out everything and couldn't, he'd be punished. If he exchanged the information he could get when he got it, the transaction was instant. Assuming, of course, he had Brendan's permission to share any information. Ste wasn't going to betray him.

Cracking his knuckles, Salisbury began to tidy himself up and rise out of his seat. He offered Ste his hand. “We've reached an agreement, then?”

Ste considered the hand on offer. He had a feeling he was about to get royally screwed. He shook the hand with his own free one. “Yeah. For now.” Salisbury bristled at his final comment, but said nothing. He left without another word, and the officers in the corners of the room returned to life and freed Ste from the metal table. 

_Finally_ , he thought, as he was led back to his cell to collect his few possessions, _it seems things might be starting to look up..._


	7. Reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> // apologies this was so late. Economic downturn = unemployment // Finally Ste is moved ...

The nerves were making his skin tight and his hairs stand on end, like there was an electrical current thrumming just beneath the surface of his body. He was twitching, jiggling his feet as he sat on the bed, cracking his knuckles, pacing – anything to avoid being still and feeling the chemicals currently at war in his brain and making his chest feel light and his muscles dance.

Ste was on edge. There wasn't really any other simpler way to describe it. They'd left him in his cell hours ago to 'collect his things', but they hadn't come back. Were they coming back at all? Had Brendan done something? Was the deal off? Or was Governor Salisbury simply teaching him a lesson: he was at his mercy. He could do this to him whenever he wanted.

The sun had disappeared by the time an officer arrived. Then another. Then another. Then _another_. Six of them were there, in total. Each of them had distinct, bright yellow taser guns attached to their hips, and a spare pair of cuffs. The cuffs he had to wear attached to a narrow chain that tied around his middle, preventing him from raising his hands higher than his chest. They marched him down to the bottom floor, then put cuffs and chains around his ankles, too. 

It was humiliating. So, so humiliating. Everybody was watching, staring, muttering. High-security transport, high-security entourage, for a next-to-no-threat prisoner. The clear demonstration of power and control was balls on the table obvious, and everybody knew it. Especially Ste. He could hardly walk, and it required so much concentration and balance not to fall with such short steps that his back and calves were beginning to send shooting pains up and down.

He was taken to a blacked-out prison van; especially for him, and him the only prisoner. The six officers sat in the back with him, and the driver moved the vehicle basically around a corner and straight on for a bit. Then it stopped. Ste had been in it less than two minutes before he was being dragged out of it again.

It was a bit of a surprise to be led to an examination room rather than straight into the wing. Ste stood there, cuffs on his wrists and ankles, and waited. He was uncuffed, forced to strip, and was examined – this time inside and out – before being allowed to put on another new set of joggers, t-shirt and jumper. He was allowed to keep the shoes he'd come with. They cuffed him up again, feet and all.

Salisbury finally arrived, a big grin on his face. “Mr. Hay!” he announced, arms wide. “Doing okay?”

“Yeah. I'm all right,” Ste ground out.

“Any questions before we begin the admittance process?”

“Just the one: … How tiny must a man's cock be to think a display like _that_ was a necessary?” 

Salisbury guffawed, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Funny. Good sense of humour. I like it. Now, before you're set free amongst the wolves, I want to go over a few things.” The arm went around Ste's shoulder, as if they were mutual conspirators. He basically re-iterated what was said in the interrogation room: make Brendan behave. Find out about past offences. Make Brendan behave. Learn everything you can. Make Brendan behave. If Brendan misbehaves, he has two strikes then the deal is off. They're separated. Ste is on his own.

“So don't go causing any trouble, now. Oh – and one final thing....” He produced a large, florists' bow and moved toward Ste.

“E'yah – what you doing?” Ste demanded, ducking away, wide-eyed.

“Brendan's gift needs to be properly wrapped,” grinned Salisbury. “I hope you're not making trouble, Mr. Hay?” he added.

“You're mental. I am _not_ wearing _that_.”

Salisbury sighed. “I'll have them return you to your previous accommodation, then. Good evening, Mr. Hay.”

“NO!” Ste practically shouted. He stared at the garish pink ribbon for a moment. He thought of being alone again. No. 

Salisbury stopped at his shout. He probably knew there'd be initial resistance. He tied the huge bow around Ste's neck. “This is called a hangman's knot,” he explained, slipping the loop over Ste's head and pulling it tight enough to just be on the wrong side of comfortable. He turned to one of the officers. “Get the cuffs off his feet, and take him to the dragon's lair.” Salisbury returned his attention to Ste. “Good luck, Steven Hay. You're going to need it in _there_.”

He turned on his heel, and he was gone.

Ste's six-officer entourage led him out of the examination room and through a similar atrium as in the larger building. He was taken to a security gate, which was double-bolted and had two locks with different keys. High security. Above Category A; known to be dangerous. Flight risks. Risks to others. Ste swallowed audibly, but none of the officers around him said anything. He wondered if they pitied him, or thought the whole situation was hilarious.

The other prisoners laughed at the bow. Shouts of _queer_ and _ladyboy_ and the usual shit bounced around the walls, and wolf-whistles and catcalls echoed around the vaulted ceiling. Ste felt like he could cry. The shame made him drop his eyes to the floor, unable to face the people around him. His face was burning hot and his eyes were salty. Everybody on this wing was twice his size, it seemed. A few were smaller, more of his frame, but nearly all of them were tall and wide. Muscular. The bottom of Ste's stomach began to writhe and crawl. 

They took him all the way to the top of the metal stairs. This wing was identical to the one he had been on before, but felt so different. The atmosphere was different. Tense, and ready to snap. This was a pit, and they were all thrown in there together to see who was feared enough to make it out the other side.

The climb had left him out of breath, and it wasn't until two large feet wearing prison-issue shoes appeared in front of him that he stopped. Raising his eyes at that moment was the hardest thing he'd ever done. Of course, it was Brendan. His arms were folded, his expression guarded and almost distant, and he barely acknowledged the bow, it seemed. He looked at Ste as if he wasn't sure who he was, so different than that day at the fence – a harsh reminder of what hand happened was before him, currently in the form of the bandages wound crudely around Brendan's arms. 

Brendan looked to the officers, and jerked his head toward a cell door beside them. The officers pushed Ste into it, removed the cuffs and chains, and left him. Ste was shaking. He could hear yells and cheers and guffaws from the pen below, and felt his face burning. He was utterly humiliated. He pulled at the bow, yanking it off and giving his neck a paper cut in the process. Brendan still hadn't entered the cell, but Ste wasn't about to go and look for him.

This room was exactly the same as the one he'd just left, except there was a small, rickety camp bed set up for him on the opposite side of the room to Brendan's iron-framed one, and the table was folded up against the wall to make room. There was a tin box on the shelf, and a CD player, but nothing much else was different aside from the lack of chair.

Brendan still hadn't entered the cell. The cheering and yelling was still going on, and the insults were still flying. The prisoners all knew who Brendan was. It sounded like they were congratulating him. He'd got a pretty one. Ste sat on his camp bed, and leaned his back against the wall. He pulled his legs up to tuck his knees under his chin and hug his legs, and he waited. Still Brendan did not come. It was more power games, Ste realised. Showing the people down below who was going to be in charge. A few tears spilled over, and he quickly muted them and wiped away the remnants.

A noise blared over a loudspeaker. Time for everybody to go to their cells. Lock-in for the night. From what Ste could hear, there were at least three times more officers on this wing than his previous home. He could tell from the sound of their rubber-soled boots. 

Finally, Brendan came to him. He looked tired and gaunt, and the gashes in his arms and legs were clearly still hurting him. They sort of just stared at each other for what felt like minutes, then Brendan closed the door behind him and shut out the wailing animals beyond.

“Are you doing okay?” he asked, leaning on the door, clearly unsure whether Ste actually wanted him near him.

Ste had lost his voice. He couldn't form words. He was transfixed. Brendan was right in front of him. He was there. He was less than six feet away, and the best Ste could manage to say to him was “Canblvu, Brn.” He could have crawled into a hole with all the embarrassment he'd suffered. Brendan was looking at him as though he thought Ste was mentally ill.

“Steven?”

The way Brendan said his name wasn't helping matters. Ste's inside melted and ached at the same time. He couldn't speak. Everything he wanted, he had. He wasn't clever enough to have the words to describe how he felt. After all he'd been through, there they both were. How could anybody possibly put that feeling into words?

Brendan moved slowly to the tatters of the bow lying on the floor. He crouched and picked it up, examining it carefully. “What did he tell you?” he asked. “That you have to make me behave?”

Ste nodded, and sniffed. His chest was moving up and down with twice the speed he was actually breathing. Why did he want to cry so badly?

Brendan was playing with the nylon of the bow. “Did he ask you to inform?”

Ste nodded again.

“Okay.”

He tossed the bow into the sink, ran some water on it and tried to mash it up a bit. There was no rubbish bin. Brendan let out a long sigh and rubbed his forehead, turned off the tap and left the mess in the sink. Ste watched his every movement; the way his hand gripped the tap, the flex of his muscles as he sat on his own bed, opposite Ste. “Are you … I … Do you …” Brendan tried to say, but his façade was cracking and something was bubbling up beneath the surface.

Ste still couldn't find the words, either. He watched as Brendan's head bowed, and his shoulders raised and fell again with a deep inhale and exhale. Finally, Ste began to uncurl himself. He felt suddenly uncertain. Did Brendan not want this? Had he disrupted the status quo of the hierarchy with the other inmates? Had he ruined Brendan's life with his stupid, selfish decisions that he himself had already suffered so much for?

Cautiously, he perched on the edge of his camp bed. He reached out, and rested a hand on Brendan's knee. Brendan didn't look up. “Bren?”

Brendan's breath was quick, short, sharp and delicate. Ste realised he was trying not to cry, too. A hand covered Ste's, and he felt a small amount of relief. “Bren?” he tried again. Brendan visibly sagged, and he pulled Ste into his arms with desperation, and Ste barely registered the movement before a six-foot-four column of hair and muscle was trying to burrow into him, crush him, press a face into his neck and not cry whilst doing it. 

Ste just clung to him. He couldn't do anything else. He didn't _want_ to do anything else. They managed to get comfortable with Ste basically curled around Brendan's body. Ste was holding him tight. He could feel him shaking. He stroked his hair.

Brendan finally raised his head. “You are in so much trouble, Steven Hay.”

Ste couldn't help it. He grinned a big, happy, toothy grin, and Brendan managed a watery smile in return. Ste felt weak just seeing it, and pressed a kiss to the corner of Brendan's mouth, then to his lips, then his cheek, then his brow, then every part of Brendan's face and neck he could reach. Brendan laughed, and the sound came out grated, as if it wasn't a sound his voice had made for a long time.

“Enough, enough, enough!” Brendan insisted, but he was laughing, and his hands were holding tightly to Ste's waist as Ste moved to literally straddle him. Ste felt more alive than he had in months – more alive then when the broken glass and drawn blood; than any drink or joint or high had ever made him feel. He leaned down and kissed Brendan properly, and Brendan's hands ran over his body as he kissed him back, and it was safe and familiar to feel those hands resting on his neck, a thumb stroking a side burn, soft hair tickling over his smoother face. Brendan tasted different, though. Not 'bad' different, but there was no smoky, whisky flavour, and no faint trace of sweetness from the sugar he incessantly consumed.

Brendan suddenly hissed in pain, and flinched. Ste raised his head, concerned. “Brendan?”

“Just … these damn things.” He indicated the gashes in his arms. In his eagerness to grab at Ste, one of them had torn open again, and a red flower was blossoming on his lower arm. 

“Sorry,” Ste murmured.

“It's not your fault,” Brendan told him as firmly as he could. “Never, ever you fault. I'm glad I've got them, rather than … what...”

“Don't think about it,” Ste cut him off, shushing him. “Here: let me.” He started undressing Brendan's arm. It felt strange to be living out his little fantasy of being able to care for these wounds. He was savouring the reality for every second he could. He tutted at what he saw, though. “Haven't you been cleaning them?”

Brendan shrugged. 

Ste raised an eyebrow. “Been busy?”

“Something like that.”

Ste thought again of the bitch boy, who he had seen taking care of these wounds. Not very good care, obviously. But Ste could put it right, though. He ran a little warm water from the sink into a cup. “We'll have to nick some salt tomorrow to do this properly,” he said, kneeling before Brendan's injured limbs and using a pillowcase and the warm water to bathe the cuts as best he could. Ste was convinced that some of them should have been stitched up, but they were too healed for that now. 

Brendan gave him a spare bandage, stolen from the First Aid room, and Ste carefully washed and re-wrapped both arms and calves, but Brendan wouldn't let him unwrap any higher. “For my own sanity,” he'd smiled, but it had given Ste some concern. Brendan joked about how 'you know how sensitive my inner thighs are' with a playful, wolfish grin, but underneath Ste got the feeling Brendan was trying to hide something. He didn't push it though. It wasn't the time.

The bandages were put away, and Ste washed out the cup. He felt suddenly nervous, as though he didn't quite know what to do with himself. He had no idea what to do next. Brendan didn't seem too interested in getting physically close, keeping his distance, not allowing their legs to touch when Ste went to sit beside him. The silence was a little awkward, sat side by side on Brendan's bed, and that was completely new to Ste. He couldn't really remember there ever being an awkward silence before.

It was Brendan that finally broke it, playing with the frayed edge of one of the wrist bandages. “How are the kids?”

“Dunno. Haven't seen them for a bit. Leah writes now and then, because she can, but she never really says owt.”

Brendan looked at him. “Why haven't you seen them?”

“Not allowed.”

“Why?”

Ste shrugged. “I made inappropriate lifestyle choices.”

“Amy's words?”

“Yep.”

“Are these choices what led you to this place?” He indicated the cell around them.

“Yes and no,” Ste replied carefully.

“You ready to tell me what you're in for, or would you rather not talk about it?”

Ste felt a great deal of pressure wash off. “No,” he admitted. “I don't want to talk about it right now.”

Brendan just nodded, and didn't say anything more.

“So … you're okay with that?” Ste asked. “Not knowing why I'm here?”

“How long have they given you?”

“Haven't been sentenced. This is just until my proper trial.”

Brendan was quiet, he brow slightly furrowed. Ste wondered what he'd think of him if he knew what he'd done to get to this place. Eventually, Brendan sighed. “Just promise me you didn't kill anybody?”

Ste blinked. “No. No I didn't.”

“Okay,” Brendan nodded. “That's okay, then.” He yawned widely and stretched. “They'll be switching the lights off soon so we should probably get into our jammies.”

“Yeah,” Ste agreed, but he wasn't tired. He watched Brendan for a moment. Was he different? Or was Ste just paranoid? Brendan must have been through a lot in here. There would be a great deal they'd probably have to talk about before things could begin to feel normal again. Ste watched Brendan pull of his jumper and t-shirt in one. His arms were bigger and more muscular; his abs were tight and toned. Ste swallowed.

He brushed his teeth and he washed and he changed, too. He glanced over at Brendan to see if he was watching, but he wasn't. He was lying on his bed, facing the wall. Ste's worry grew some more, but didn't know if he should say anything. Once in his pyjamas, he stood awkwardly for a moment between his camp bed and Brendan's bed. “Night, then,” he eventually decided to say, and moved toward the camp bed. Brendan raised his head.

“You don't wanna sleep here with me?” he asked, concerned. 

Ste felt his face split into a massive grin, and pretty much jumped on him. Brendan grunted with the impact. There wasn't much room, and Ste was sandwiched between Brendan and the wall, but it was significantly warmer and much more comfortable to be crammed into this bed with Brendan curled around him than on his own with too much space in the camp bed. His worry piqued again when no kisses were pressed to his neck or shoulder. It seemed Brendan wasn't going to initiate anything. That wasn't entirely unusual, but given how long they'd been apart, Ste thought it would have gone without saying … but Brendan was probably re-learning his boundaries, so they'd figure themselves out when the time was right.

“Night, Brendan.”

“Na-Night, Steven.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Ste squeezed his eyes shut. That was a conversation he never thought he'd be having again, and there it had just rolled off their tongues without either of them really thinking about it. Ste wondered what Brendan was thinking. He pushed his hips back a little bit to see if he could feel anything, under the guise of getting a little more comfortable, but Brendan's mind apparently hadn't happened upon that train of thought. Ste could feel the rise and fall of Brendan's chest against his back, and breath tickling his hair, and the pulse in Brendan's wrist. His breathing and his heart were steady. He was already asleep. 

It was a while before Ste drifted off. His head was spinning so noisily he couldn't relax. Brendan shifted behind him now and then, and occasionally a hand would squeeze him or pat him to make sure he was still there. It was everything Ste had missed, but still he couldn't sleep.

When he did wake, it was to the sound of the klaxon cutting through the cell block. He opened his eyes, feeling like he'd never slept at all. Brendan had already been awake. “Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” Ste replied, groggy with sleep. He yawned widely.

“Sleep well?”

“Not really. Took ages to drift off.”

“It's not an easy place to fall asleep, but you get used to it.”

Ste smiled, and kissed him. Brendan kissed him back, then rolled off the bed and onto his feet in one movement, heading for the sink. Ste felt coldness where Brendan's body had been, and stamped down on his confusion. There was an ache inside him, like he _needed_ Brendan to be as close as possible, like Brendan touching his skin gave him some kind of hit – a reminder of an addiction he had tried to believe he'd recovered from.

There was the sound of the water tinkling back into the sink as Brendan washed, gentle splashes as he cleaned his face and woke himself up properly. Ste pulled the covers around himself a little more, trying to get warm again, and finally Brendan looked over at him. He grabbed a towel and dried his face, then sat on the bed. Ste was reminded of that morning in Dublin, and he couldn't help but grin widely. 

Brendan smiled back, affectionately, then cleared his throat. “Listen, Steven … We need to talk before we go out there.”

Ste let out a long breath. “Ground rules?” he supposed.

Brendan nodded. “It's … not simple in here. Well, it is. But it isn't. We're not free here, Steven. There's a whole hierarchy and society, and the roles we have to play are set for us. This wing … the tensions run high, status is everything, and very few of us have all that much to lose.”

“Just say what you mean,” Ste prompted, sitting himself up a bit more. Brendan leaned in and kissed him, and kissed him properly. For a moment, it almost took Ste by surprise. He went along with it, let his skin sing and his tongue taste, until Brendan parted them and rested their foreheads together.

“Outside of that door, you have to do anything and everything I tell you.”

“You have to look like you're in control.”

Fingertips grazed over Ste's cheek. “Yes,” Brendan replied. “But I know what you're like. I know how hard that will be for you, and I'm sorry. But there are expectations. I worked hard for my status here and if you blow my cover … if you're … _disobedient_ -” He sort of spat the word out. “- then they'll expect me to just cut you loose. Reject you. And when I can't, they'll call me weak. I'll have no respect. It wouldn't be safe for either of us. Please, please, _please_ tell me you understand this?”

Ste sat up straight again so that they could look at each other properly. “Me being here … It's entirely my doing. There's a price. This is it. I understand.”

“You need to give me grief for something, you do it in here. You need to tell me your thoughts, you have to do it in here. There's a term … Prison Bent … Relationships between inmates that happen in prison, whether they're gay or not. But they're not real relationships. Those boys to those men … they're dogs. Pets. They're about feeling powerful in a place where you're powerless.”

“And you're expected to get yourself a pet?” Ste asked distastefully.

“I had one. He was okay. A schemer. A survivor. He knew the system better than he let on.”

“And what will become of him now?”

“He'll wheedle his way in with someone else. He'll be okay. He'll be okay … But that doesn't matter. I'm going to look after you now, okay?” Brendan pressed another kiss to his lips.

Ste nodded. “Okay.”

“And outside this door-”

“No matter what happens, Ste keeps his mouth shut.”

“Thank you.” Brendan smiled, then he patted Ste's knee. “Time to get up and washed. Don't want other inmates ogling you once the doors are open.”

At least Brendan seemed in a better mood than the night before. He was probably just adjusting his mental state to Ste being around him again. Lord knows, Ste wasn't even sure he had been prepared himself. Ste washed and he changed as Brendan sat on the bed and started reading a book, semingly to distract himself from watching Ste. Brendan didn't speak again until the door was opened. “That bed there is useless,” he said to the Officer that unlocked their cell, not looking up from the book he was reading but indicating the camp bed with his head. “Takes up far too much room.”

“Would Your Highness require anything else whilst Service is here?” the Officer replied sarcastically. 

Brendan glanced up. He dragged the word out. “ _Slippers_.”

The Officer simply snorted and left. Ste chuckled. “You're a bitch, Brendan.”

Brendan grinned. “Breakfast?” he asked, a little too hopefully.

“Sure. Breakfast.”

They set off down the walkway toward the stairs, passing other cells as they went. Ste tried to keep his eyes down and not look, but his ears picked up on a few things. None of the cells were empty on this level, and most of the occupants of these cells were angry about something or other. Brendan made Ste walk straight past a cell where a larger inmate was beating a much smaller one, begging him to stop. Ste didn't say anything in protest. He kept going.

Breakfast on this wing was the same as the other. Healthy shit. _Granola_. But any food was good food as far as Brendan seemed to be concerned, and he led Ste with a bowl piled high to an empty table right in the middle of the cafeteria section. They were like the dinner tables from Ste's high school, with benches on either side that scraped on the floor and rocked underneath him. On his way to the table, not a single inmate had purposefully knocked into him, touched him, or tried to whisper in his ear. The lack of assault unnerved him. He guessed it must be Brendan's status, since the table Brendan obviously preferred hadn't been occupied, either.

“See him?” Brendan asked over a mouthful of bran flakes or whatever this brown stuff was. “With the giant afro?”

“Mhmm?”

“Murdered his wife with a plastic bag and a vacuum cleaner.”

Nausea rose in Ste's stomach. “Brendan …”

“And see him?”

“Erm … yeah?”

“One of the Muslim paedophiles from the Rochdale taxi rank.”

“I heard about that.”

“Yeah? Well see him, there?”

Ste nodded with caution. A white man with a cross tattoo in the middle of his forehead, eating with a table full of other, similarly-built white men. 

“He tortured, raped and murdered five eight-year-old girls. He was only sentenced two months ago.”

Ste blinked. “Wha -? When did … I never heard about _that_.”

Brendan chuckled, his eyes darkening. “I didn't think you would have. None of his victims were white.”

Ste felt sick. “The media-?”

“Yep.”

Brendan was quiet for the rest of breakfast. Nobody spoke to him. He sent the occasional glare at some table or other now and then, but nobody came over. Ste laid down his spoon, and the moment he did, his bowl was stolen.

“Well, you weren't gonna eat it,” shrugged Brendan over a large mouthful of cereal. 

Ste shook his head. 

“You okay?” Brendan asked. He sounded concerned.

“Dunno,” Ste replied. “It's different here than the other wing. I'm adjusting.”

“What's so different?” Brendan took a swig of orange juice. From Ste's cup.

“Everything. I mean we're allowed to sit at a table on our own, for a start. Nobody's talking about me. Nobody tried to touch me or talk to me. I'm adjusting.”

Brendan's eyes had turned a little stony. “What I stopped … had it happened before?”

“Nothing that bad had happened. Just … touching. Groping. Whispers.” Ste shuddered, remembering. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“No,” Brendan agreed. 

Somebody nervously cleared their throat, and Ste glanced up to find a guy a little older than him, possibly Indian, shifting his weight from foot to foot right next to their table. “Brendan?” he feebly managed to say, visibly terrified.

Brendan looked up at him, looking like he was trying to remember the man's name. His eyes narrowed, and he pointed his finger at him. “Anik?”

He nodded.

“You owe me.”

“Yeah … that's … I brought the ...” he mumbled, and put a pack of cigarettes on the table. Brendan opened it to check they were all there, then tucked it into his pocket.

“Jog on,” he instructed, and Anik all but bolted off. Brendan almost managed to contain a giggle. 

“Go on. What did he owe you for? I can see you dying to tell me.”

Brendan's returning grin was wolfish. “Well … some of the young 'uns … First-timers, if you'll excuse the pun – they want a bit of _education_ before they – y'know – throw themselves into prison life, if you get what I'm saying.”

“He paid you to shag him?”

Brendan shrugged. “It's a living,” he said. As if it was funny.

Ste stared at him. “You testing me?”

Brendan shook his head.

“You're lying.”

Brendan rolled his eyes.

“What the _fuck_?” Ste whispered.

“Nah, I am joking. I beat up a guy and he paid me.”

“You fucker.”

Brendan laughed, properly. Ste tried to remain furious, but it wasn't working. “You _fucker_.” he repeated. Brendan laughed again, then concentrated on scraping out the final dregs from his bowl.

“You ready?” he asked. Ste didn't know what for, but he nodded anyway. Brendan got up, and rather than taking their bowls to the washing up hatch he just left them. “Somebody else will do it,” he insisted offhandedly.

Brendan didn't seem interested in talking to anyone. After their conversation earlier, Ste wasn't sure whether or not he was supposed to walk next to Brendan or behind him. He decided to wait for a cue of some sort. It came when a large man with a scarred face very obviously shouldered into him, and Ste stumbled. Brendan caught him, set him on his feet, and Ste felt his heart leap to his throat. Brendan was staring the other guy down, and the other guy didn't seem to be backing off.

“Problem, Scarface?” Brendan asked, mocking him. 

“Apologies, Brady. Didn't realise that one was yours.”

Ste shrank away. The guy seemed to be making a challenge, and Brendan was edging closer, pulling himself up to full height. Ste didn't like it. This was going to get violent, and Ste didn't want to get pulled into a crossfire – not when he'd promised the Governor Brendan would be on best behaviour. But then, Brendan changed.

“No bother, mate,” he said, but didn't break eye contact as he retreated minutely. “You know now, yeah?”

The other guy raised his eyebrow, then turned and walked away. Situation averted. Ste let out a sigh of relief. “What was that really about?” he asked as Brendan headed toward the seats surrounding the TV caged up at the top of the wall. 

“He's a cock. Think nothing of it.”

“Nice try.”

Brendan sighed, shooting him a slightly amused look out of the corner of his eye as he sat on one of the plastic chairs and indicated the space next to him was for Ste. Ste sat, and Brendan cleared his throat. “His name is Elliott Hadley. He's about the same as me status-wise, trying to get an upper hand.”

“And did he?” Ste asked. He wasn't sure how to read the situation.

“No idea. I'm just winging it.”

Brendan's arm was draped over the back of the chair Ste was sat on, almost possessively. He'd never have done that on the outside. _This Morning_ was on the TV, and Ste shifted to get comfortable on the hard plastic. It seemed watching _This Morning_ was part of Brendan's morning routine, and he wasn't going to deviate. 

After an hour, Ste was bored. He was shifting in his seat. He was playing songs in his head. He was counting floor tiles. He was going out of his mind, and Brendan didn't seem to notice, instead ignoring Ste and attentively watching Holly Willoughby an Phil Schofield chat excitedly about clothes for dogs and the morality of paying women for eggs. 

“Brend-”

“Sh!” 

Ste tutted, folded his arms, scowled, and slouched down into his seat. He sighed. A few moments later he found himself heavilty sighing again. Then he yelped. He couldn't breathe. Somebody had grabbed him roughly and was holding his head and neck in a very firm grip. Ste could smell Brendan's breath as it hotly grazed over his ear. 

“I. Am. Trying. To. Watch. This.”

Ste just felt numb. His stomach was rolling. He was tense, clinging onto one of Brendan's arms in the headlock and shaking. He was scared. He forced himself to nod, and the grip around his neck loosened. Brendan returned to watching his show as if nothing had happened and Ste stared at his emotionless face, feeling tears welling up behind his eyes. Jim had warned him, and he hadn't listened. Brendan had warned him, and he hadn't listened. 

Without any more hesitation, Ste got to his feet and ran. He didn't stop or pause or excuse himself until he was safely inside the cell. He let out one or two dry sobs, then stopped himself. Ste hadn't been scared of Brendan for so long, and everything came flooding back in a moment. Sinking down to the floor, his back to the wall, Ste put his face in his hands and did everything he could to prevent himself from crying again. 

It was a long while before Brendan came back upstairs – around 11 'o' clock by Ste's estimation. Brendan was clearly hungry, and Brendan's stomach kept perfect time. Brendan walked straight into the room, and didn't appear in any way cautious until the door was nearly closed. He crouched down beside Ste on the floor. “I … I did warn you,” he tried, apologetic.

Ste didn't reply, staring at the tiles of the wall opposite him. 

“Hey … Steven? I'm sorry, okay. I had to do it. Others were noticing.”

“You practically strangled me.”

“I _had_ to.”

Ste's voice became so small, he was sure he sounded like a frightened little boy. “You scared me.”

“I told you that you'd have to behave, and that if they thought I couldn't control you I'd have to … y'know.”

“The reality of it was unexpected. It … It brought a lot of stuff back,” Ste replied. “I'm okay. I'm okay now.”

“Are you?”

Ste swallowed. “I don't know. I don't know. I'm all over.” He breathed deeply and leaned his head back against the wall, thinking. “Did you treat him like that?”

“Who?”

“Your guy from before?”

“At first, yeah. But he learned quick.”

“He seemed very … You snap your fingers and he'd run kind of ...”

“Yeah,” Brendan nodded, moving off his haunches and sitting on the floor. He wasn't sitting overly close, but close enough to speak low. 

“Was he scared of you?” Ste asked curiously.

Brendan shrugged. “He wasn't stupid. He knew the game. Appearances are everything, right? He was a little clumsy and got a couple of thick ears, but he was okay. Sweet, kinda.”

“What was he in for?”

“Drugs mule, I think. You don't really ask in here.”

“I feel bad that he's gonna be … y'know … without you.”

“Don't,” Brendan shrugged. “I spoke to one of my mates when I found out you were coming. He's gonna take him.”

“Generous.”

Brendan shifted a little uncomfortably. “You get used to the way it is.”

“Being talked about and passed around like an object? Ah well. I suppose women have learned to live with it.”

Brendan shifted uncomfortably again. “At least you know you're going to be safe.”

“Just – Can we change the subject? I've learned from what happened so let's move on, yeah?”

Brendan seemed unsure, but put on a smile and nodded. “Okay … so … You hungry?”

Ste chuckled. “I knew that was coming.”

“I know a guy who can get us food. Decent food. Bacon decent.” He waggled his eyebrows, and Ste giggled. 

“Go on then.”

“I'll be back in a minute. I'll see if I can get some decent tea, too.” He flashed another grin before he left, then returned to his Prisoner Brady mask and strode out of sight. 

Ste finally got himself up off the floor, and pins and needles were his reward. He jumped around the cell a bit, having it in his head that doing so would cure them. The way his nerves made him move reminded him of the time he'd been spiked with speed. Eventually, he threw himself down onto Brendan's bed and stared at the ceiling hoping nobody would come. The scent of Brendan clung to the blankets around him, and it both comforted him and made him nervous. He shook the negative feelings aside. It wasn't entirely Brendan's fault, he told himself.

He heard Brendan before he saw him, and sat up. He was talking to somebody. His tone was jovial and light. Whoever he was talking to, he liked them. His voice carried a little way, and then he appeared, framed by the door. He had crisps, a few cans of coke, a packet of ham and some white bread. “Breakfast,” he announced, and chucked the lot on Ste's bed. “Oh,” Brendan continued, “and this is Freddie.”

“Hey,” Freddie replied. But Ste couldn't find words. He couldn't breathe. 

“F-Freddie?” he finally managed to stammer, staring.

“Erm … yeah?” Freddie glanced over at Brendan, like he thought Ste was mad. He didn't even recognise him. The walls were closing in on Ste, the air was thick but cold, his lungs hurt and his head was pounding - _and Freddie didn't even recognise him_. 

“Please … don't...”

Freddie frowned and him, and Brendan put a hand on Ste's shoulder. “Steven?”

Ste couldn't move his eyes from Freddie's. “Get him out,” he croaked. Brendan seemed surprised, and for a moment, he didn't move. Ste panicked. “Out!” he shouted. “Out! Out!” He forced himself up, and Brendan was getting to his feet. Ste needed space. He couldn't breathe. His pins and needles were back, shooting up and down his arms. Black was creeping in the corners of his vision, and the colours he _could_ see were cranked up to high contrast. 

He didn't remember much more after that, other than the sound of the cell door slamming, and Brendan's voice trying to soothe him. Darkness took over, but at least Ste could breathe again...


	8. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consequences in prison are very different to those in the outside world. It's hard to threaten a bunch of men with prison when they're already there.

“It was a panic attack,” a distant, female voice said. A low rumble answered her – Brendan's voice – and then more words that Ste couldn't hear were exchanged a little further away. He felt himself groan, but the sound came out so far away he wasn't sure it had even been him. “If it happens again, we need to be told immediately,” the woman continued.

The clang of metal told Ste the door had been shut. He opened one eye, squinting, then the other. The grogginess faded quickly, and he sat up, wide awake. “What … what?”

“You had a panic attack,” Brendan explained knowledgeably, as if diagnosing the condition himself and assuring Ste that everything was fine. The woman was gone. He looked pale. “Nothing to worry about. You'll be okay. You just … hyperventilated.” He absently scratched at the bandage on his wrist, lowering himself to sit on the bed beside Ste. “Do you remember what happened before … _it_ happened?”

“Yes.”

“Go on then – who did he remind you of?” Brendan took Ste's hand comfortingly.

“He didn't remind me of anyone,” Ste scowled in reply, even though his facial features didn't really feel like his own any more. He was trembling a little.

“Then … ?”

“It actually was him.”

“Who?”

“The _bait_.” Ste spat the word out.

Brendan shifted a little, frowning. “Bait for … ?”

Ste couldn't quite bring himself to look at him. Would he think him weak or stupid for falling into the trap? “He's part of a trafficking gang.” Ste made to get up, but Brendan put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“How do you know him?”

“Does it matter?”

“ _How_ do you know him?”

“Oi! I wasn't … I didn't do any of that!” Ste tried to shake him off, but Brendan took hold of his shoulders.

“Hey! Hey – I know! I just …” He seemed lost for words for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. “Did he … did they … ?”

With a final shove, Ste got him off. He stood in front of the sink, leaning on the edge of the basin. He ran some water. “I need to wash.”

“Steven.”

“I don't want to talk about it, okay?”

Warm hands rested on Ste's hips, and Ste looked up into the mirror before him. Brendan was stood behind him, and he looked sad. “You're not okay, Steven,” he said.

“Nope,” Ste agreed.

“What do you want me to do about Freddie?”

“Nothing. For now.”

The concept visibly confused Brendan. “What?”

“I want you to do nothing. It's not like he recognised me, is it?”

“That's hardly the point,” Brendan argued, turning Ste's shoulder so that they were facing each other. He looked concerned, and also like a coiled spring. The cogs were turning in Brendan's head, plotting.

“I wasn't making a point,” Ste replied as Brendan's arms tightened around him to pull him into a hug. Ste had the feeling Brendan was using him to ground himself so that he wouldn't go flying off the handle. Ste could feel him trembling, the vibration of Brendan's muscles humming against his own body. Ste let out a long breath, allowing himself to relax, hoping Brendan would, too. “I'm sorry,” he murmured against Brendan's shoulder.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Brendan assured him, but Ste could hear it in his tone. He was turning over scenarios in his head. He was letting his temper build.

“Don't,” Ste asked again. “Please don't do anything. Not yet. I want him to think he's safe.”

“But-”

“ _No_ , Brendan. Please? I just had a panic attack – do you think I need this stress right now?”

Brendan growled, a short but deep rumbling sound in his throat. He nodded once. “Okay,” he agreed. He could probably feel Ste's nerves still shaking.

“If you see him and he makes you angry, just think of me. Just think of how much better it will feel if he thinks he's safe, and then realises he isn't.” Ste looked at him properly, resting his fingers interlocked behind Brendan's neck.

Brendan cocked his head to the side. “You've been thinking about this, haven't you?”

Ste felt his face crack into a grin that probably didn't match the darkness of his thoughts. “A little.”

A hand cupped his face, and Ste leaned into the touch. He pressed himself against Brendan's body and kissed his mouth. Brendan was hesitant, but the moment passed and they relaxed into it. Ste brought his hands to down to wrap around Brendan's middle, and Brendan's fingers tugged at his hair. It felt strange to be so happy after so much time had passed.

Brendan wanted the full story – Ste could sense it. The demand hung in the air unspoken, but Ste wanted to hold onto the information for a little while longer. He needed Brendan to be unable to act and forced to think about it before deciding on revenge rather than hunting Freddie down and causing inevitable harm for all of them. Ste didn't reckon that longer in prison would act as deterrent enough to keep Brendan's temper in line. 

They sat on Brendan's bed in silence, Brendan more alert than Ste had properly seen him so far. They ate the bits of stolen food Brendan had hidden under the bed without exchanging too many words. It wasn't comfortable silence, though. Brendan's anxiety was strong enough to affect his appetite, and he was doing little more than nibbling at the corners of bread. Ste didn't know if h was supposed to talk. He thought about topics of conversation but nothing sprang to mind, and Brendan's head was filled with thoughts about Freddie.

“Do your arms still hurt?” Ste eventually asked. “And your legs?”

“Not so bad any more,” Brendan replied. “It's been a few days.” He didn't offer anything else by way of conversation. 

The tension was a bit awkward. Ste tried again. “Can I look at them properly?”

Brendan frowned, concerned. “Why?”

Ste shrugged. “Just wanted to see how they're healing.”

“They're just cuts. I'm a big boy.”

“They're gonna scar.”

“So? Big points in here if you're covered in scars.” 

Ste sighed. Brendan shifted, realising he was expected to make an effort. “So … well … y'know … you don't have any scars, so ...”

“I do,” Ste corrected. “Well, I do now.”

“W-what from?”

“I … erm … I don't wanna talk about it.”

Stupid things. Deals gone wrong. Windows punched through. A fight. The time Trevor had threatened to cut his fingers off – and Ste had taken one of Trevor's instead. Brendan tried pushing for answers.

“I just got a bit stupid with the Deli knives,” Ste lied. There was no point in increasing Brendan's worries now – especially not with Freddie and a panic attack looming over them. Thinking of the attack made Ste nervous and agitated again. It had felt like suffocating. He'd thought he was going to die.

Brendan didn't believe him about the knives, but really Ste hadn't expected him to. He dropped the subject, though. “How is the deli?” he asked, conversationally, but then somebody down the corridor had begun crying loudly, and Ste tensed. There was a muted plea for help, and Ste made to move. Brendan caught his arm. “No, Steven,” he said firmly. “Ignore it.”

“What? I can't!”

“Steven,” Brendan repeated. The sobbing made Ste feel sick.

“How can you just sit here? How can you expect me to do the same?” He tried to shake off Brendan's grip, but Brendan wasn't letting go.

“It's a sound you have to get used to.”

“No, it bloody well isn't.”

“ _Please_ , Steven.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“If we help him now, it will be worse for him in the long run. Think about it!”

“There's nothing to think about! Let go!” Ste tried to pull his hand out of Brendan's but the grip was so tight it was nearly hurting. The grip changed a moment as Brendan tried to gain better hold, and Ste managed to almost get to his feet. He overbalanced and Brendan dragged him down so that he was face down on the mattress. Brendan lay on top of him, heavier than ever before and most definitely not moving.

“ _No,_ Steven,” he repeated again. “You play the hero now and they'll come for you.”

Ste struggled under Brendan's weight. “So protect me then!” he argued.

“I'm protecting you now!” Brendan argued back.

Ste conceded a momentary defeat and stopped struggling. He'd hoped Brendan would sit up, but he didn't so much as shift his weight. He was pretty much prepared to lie there until they locked the doors that night if it meant stopping Ste from helping the crying boy down the corridor. Ste felt furious. Brendan kissed his hair and the back of his neck, and a thumb stroked over his tense knuckles. 

“I bet you'd have given anything to have somebody pull your dad off you.”

The silence that followed was harsh. “It's better to do nothing,” Brendan rasped.

“That makes you as bad as them.”

“That's probably not what's happening. It's just a beating.”

“ _Just_?”

“Steven, you don't understand a damn thing. It's better to do nothing. Seriously.”

Ste glared at the wall opposite him. It was hard to breathe with Brendan's weight almost completely on him, and Ste struggled against it to try and get comfier. Brendan wasn't for moving – even after the noise down the block quietened down, it was a good few minuted before he finally let Ste get up. They sat in tense silence, and Ste was aware that Brendan was carefully watching him, trying to gauge him and what he might do next.

He decided to bide his time. There was no point doing anything now. He could report the incident soon enough, and put a stop to it. 

“What did your really expect?” Brendan asked him. “That this would be a nice, orderly Young Offenders' for Grown Ups?”

Ste gritted his teeth. He wasn't going to dignify Brendan's accusation with an answer. He started messing with his nails instead, and Brendan sighed heavily. Awkward silence again fell, and they both shifted their weight wondering what to say.

“I got you a job in the kitchens,” Brendan eventually managed. “It's not exactly restaurant-quality ingredients, but you should be okay. I work in the kitchens. I can keep an eye on you. It all works out.”

He hugged his knees to his chest, half-listening. “Mmm,” he responded.

A hand brushed his shoulder. “Steven?” Brendan tried.

Ste shrugged him off and got to his feet. “Going for a walk,” he said, and headed toward the door.

“Wait!” Brendan called after him, but Ste ignored him. He hesitated by on the walkway, and bit his lip. He vaguely heard Brendan saying something along the lines of ' _Don't even think about it_ ', but Ste ignored him again. He started toward where the sound had come from. He'd ignored enough young men crying and begging. Maybe he could at least give somebody the comfort of knowing somebody else cared.

Brendan got to him first, though. “I said-”

“Get off me!” Ste snapped, pulling the arm that Brendan had grabbed back toward himself. 

“ _Steven_ ,” Brendan warned, blocking his path. “Get back in the room.”

Ste steeled himself. “You can't expect me t-”

“I am.” He tried to use Ste's shoulders to turn him around and guide him back into the cell, but Ste dodged him.

“Bren-” Ste began, then yelped. His t-shirt was pulled too tight against his neck, cutting off the last syllable of Brendan's name. He stumbled and was unceremoniously bundled through the door. It was slammed behind him. With a grunt he landed on the hard floor, coughing.

“We _agreed_ ,” Brendan fumed, “that you would do as you're told. Do you _want_ them to … to … to …!” He couldn't seem to finish his sentence, so trailed off.

“Get away from me!” Ste yelled, stumbling to his feet. “You're … you're...”

“Get it into your _thick head_ , Steven Hay – this is not the outside world!”

“How can we just-!”

“Because we _have_ to! Because people get worse than beaten for not falling in line! You wanna be a grass? Do it when your neck is the only one on the line! Do it when you actually understand the _consequences_ of being the rat! Then we'll see how brave and pig-headed you are! Now I've got damage control to do because of your little act out there.” He turned on his heel toward the door. “If you're not still here when I get back …” He didn't complete the threat, leaving Ste glowering at him, and then the back of the door.

~*~*~*~

It kept Ste awake that night – even more so than the prospect of showering in prison had. At least now he had Brendan to keep an eye on him. Brendan's damage control seemed to have just been him complaining very loudly to some of his 'friends' about breaking in new boys. He didn't elaborate much on anything else, and Ste hadn't been in the mood for talking.

There was only so much Ste could fit on his conscience, as he lay awake staring at the dark bricks in front of him and not feeling the least bit tired. Brendan was sleeping soundly behind him, which frustrated Ste even more. He just wanted some kind of intimacy. The few kisses they'd shared had been good, but Ste wanted more. Brendan was reluctant to touch him, and that made Ste paranoid. Was there something wrong with him? Had something happened to Brendan?

Ste wasn't speaking to him properly the next morning, either. Brendan tried to push joviality but Ste couldn't bring himself to pretend he was okay. He'd ignored the beatings of others when he'd been on his own, but Brendan was a different kettle of fish. Brendan could _do_ something. They dressed, and Ste made a submissive show over breakfast, with his eyes down and his mouth shut. Then Brendan went to watch _This Morning_ , and Ste reluctantly followed. During one of the ad breaks, he decided to go to the toilet. 

On the way, he bumped into an Officer just before the stairs. She seemed rough around the edges, but nice enough. He couldn't help it. He asked her if there was somebody he could speak to, and she said he'd hear back soon enough. 

Of course the moment he returned to his seat beside Brendan, Brendan made it known he'd seen the conversation. “What did the screw want?” he asked, pretending to be conversational.

“She was asking about anything suspicious yesterday,” Ste replied.

“And what did you say?”

“Nothing,” Ste lied. “I said nothing.”

“Good,” said Brendan.

~*~*~*~

They took him to an interview room see Mr. Salisbury, who looked particularly gleeful to see him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hay,” he greeted with a toothy grin that made his eyes gleam in a rather unpleasant way.

“A'right,” Ste replied, sitting down

“You … wanted to speak to someone?”

“Yeah about … something that happened.”

“When?”

“Yesterday?”

Salisbury's smile faltered slightly. “Yesterday?” he repeated

“Yeah … Um – at about-”

“My interest isn't in _yesterday_ ,” Salisbury cut him off. “My interest is in _previous_ to prison. You do understand what that means, don't you?”

“Oi!” Ste took offence to the indirect insult. 

“I want body locations. Victims' names. Not _yesterday_!”

“This isn't about Brendan!”

Salisbury frowned at him. “Oh?”

“No. It's about … There's this guy down the corridor, and I think he got raped.”

Salisbury sighed. “Right. I see.”

“'Cause like, he was-”

“Of course. Yes, yes.” Salisbury started getting up. “Prison rape is a big issue. We're doing all we can to prevent it. Thank you for your information.”

“Hey! Wait! You're gonna do something, right?”

“Do something?”

“Yeah … about … y'know-”

Salisbury sighed heavily. “You know, I'm not going to deny that Brady's behaviour has improved since you came into the picture. But you need to hold up all your ends of the bargain, Hay. I want that information.”

Salisbury ignored anything else he had to say and simply left the room. Ste growled in frustration and thumped the table in front of him. This wasn't right. Salisbury wasn't going to do _anything_. Who else could he turn to? He was led back to the wing in cuffs, contemplating the question just as _This Morning_ drew to a close. Brendan wasn't in his usual spot. He was, in fact, hovering near the wing entrance, waiting for them.

“Hope he wasn't any trouble,” he said through the bars of the final gate as they approached. The officers ignored him and removed the cuffs from Ste's wrists. He was pretty much just pushed through the gate and left. Brendan walked beside him. “What did they want?” he asked. “What did they ask you? Why did they take you out?”

“It was Salisbury. Wanted a progress report.” Ste wouldn't say anything more, which just wound Brendan up further. 

Ste was set to work in the kitchens preparing vegetables for salads and stews. It was considered the lowest job, since there was a helluva lot of onion involved. Ste had to wear an apron, a hairnet and bright blue sterile gloves. He felt like a fool. Even Doug hadn't forced him into this kind of crap. He set to work on the non-onion vegetables first. There was going to be a stew and a salad required for lunch, so lots of veggies were needed. Great.

Brendan just seemed to hover about near the potato section, stealing raw ones to nibble on and looking busy – usually washing one or two – when an officer wandered around. He seemed happy enough.

Some of the vegetables were pushing being fresh enough, but Ste figured they'd be okay. The celery was far too tough, but he managed to hack through it. Every now and then older inmates would wander past his work station and comment or laugh at his neat chopping and precise vegetable organising system. He ignored them as best he could. 

Directly opposite his workstation was a long set of counters that ended in a meat grinder. Two younger lads were working the grinder as another dropped the meat in and a fourth guided it into boxes ready to be boiled into the stew or frozen. Some of the meat was browning, a little past mature, but Ste ignored it and concentrated on his vegetables.

Everything was going fine. He'd secured himself some bread and a sliced lemon to absorb most of the onion fumes, so he was barely suffering at all. Brendan seemed amused by his little arrangement. “The lemon is magic?” he asked at one point after wandering over and slipping a bit of chocolate into Ste's hand. 

“Absorbs the sulphites,” Ste explained.

“And you didn't think to tell me that during my cooking lessons?”

“Go back to your potatoes,” Ste chided.

He returned to … whatever it was Brendan was supposedly paid to do. Ste returned to his onions. Then the kitchen door banged open, and all hell broke loose. There was a lot of shouting, and a lot of swearing. One of the lads on the potato station looked terrified, and Brendan had a hand on a big, burly man's shoulder telling him to calm down as he shouted into the younger man's face.

Three of them had burst in in total, but it from the commotion they were causing it felt like a lot more. They were overturning the empty storage boxes and kicking at the potato sacks to get them to fall over and spill and knocking together pans to make the biggest din they could.

“GRASS!” the first was yelling. “FUCKING GRASS!”

Ste froze, knife in his hand, with no idea what to do. The screws were absent. He couldn't see anybody who might help. He had to watch as the guy denied any form of ratting or grassing, begging to be believed. Ste recognised that begging voice. It was the one that had kept him awake.

“Screws have been asking around – What have you been saying?”

“C'mon,” Brendan tried, “Wallace they do this, right? They do this all the time. They do it to scare us. They don't know shit. C'mon, man, back down. It's okay. It's okay.” Brendan was shoved backward with force, and Brendan shoved back in kind. 

“Fucking hypocrite, Brady!”

Another guy, one of the fryers, was coming over. “Think for a minute, Wal,” he said. “Why would he grass? If he was gonna do it he'd have done it before, right? Newbies do.”

Brendan looked Ste straight in the eye right then. He knew. He looked away quickly, focussing on the situation at hand and trying to control it, think-lipped and more tense than before. “They always do this, man. They always do this.”

The knife in Ste's hand was trembling slightly. He kept a grip on it, and slowly hid his hand beneath the table. If they came for him, he wasn't completely helpless. Wallace wasn't for being placated, though. Neither were his two larger friends. He was yelling and shouting, and the young man – Ste didn't even know what his name was, and this was his fault – was pleading, looking terrified. 

“I'm sorry I haven't done anything please believe me I didn't grass I'd never grass I'm not like that you know that please please pleasepleaseplease-”

“ENOUGH!” one of the cronies bellowed, and everybody fell silent. Even Brendan bit his tongue and shut up. “Even if he didn't grass, there needs to be an example.”

There was a murmur of assent, and Ste felt his stomach drop. Then suddenly everybody turned to him, and he wasn't sure why. 

“What did you say?” asked Wallace. Ste gulped.

“I didn't say anything.”

Brendan's eyes were wide, saying something that Ste couldn't quite fathom at that moment. He kept a tight hold on his knife, and tried to desperately remember what he might have accidentally said. Brendan stepped in, though. “I'll take care of that,” he said coldly, rounding the cronies to get to the side of the workstation Ste was on. 

Wallace looked furious. “Fish and first-timers grass!” 

“Hey!” Brendan argued, squaring up and standing between him and Ste. “He didn't do anything.”

“He was taken to talk to the Governor. Why was that?”

“They want him to grass on me, yeah?” Brendan argued.

“Bit of a coincidence, don't you think?”

“They're procrastinators! They do a little bit all at once then nothing for months. Isn't that what you said to Paulie when he tried to put his boy through the grinder?”

Wallace ground his teeth. His eyes were bloodshot from the stress. He was still glowering at Ste, not taking his eyes off him. Ste clutched the knife tightly out of sight. His fingers hurt with how hard he was gripping it but he wasn't about to let go. 

The air seemed to sag with relief. Wallace was abated. Ste felt like he could breathe again. It wasn't the most frightened he'd been in his life, but it was close. Brendan was leading Wallace back toward the potato side of the kitchen, a hand on his shoulder, talking quietly. 

The cronies were there, too, chipping in their bit. They'd been promised blood, and had gotten nothing. They were unhappy. The word kept floating back toward Ste through the kitchen. _Example_. _Example_.

It happened so fast that Ste probably wouldn't have even realised what _was_ happening until it was over. Brendan was ahead of him, though. The atmosphere broke again; there were lunging arms and the boy by the potatoes – Wallace's bitch boy – was screaming out. Ste felt a strong hand dragging him by the wrist, hauling him bodily to the door of the kitchen. _“Out, out, out, out,_ ” chanted Brendan, dragging him. He was wild-eyed, and Ste had no idea what was really happening.

There were horrified yells and delightful jeers from the kitchen; guards and officers almost climbing over each other to get through the doors. Brendan dragged Ste out into the corridor, against a tide of inmates trying to get to the kitchens to see what was going on. Over everything, Ste could hear the young man screaming. 

They were back in their cell before Brendan would let go. “ _Shit_ ,” he was saying, out of breath and hair on end. He paced back and forth. “Shit. Shit. Fucking _shit_!”

Ste still had the knife in his hand. He stared at it. “Brendan...”

Brendan saw it, and took a few deep breaths to calm himself. Gently, he pulled the knife out of Ste's hand. “You don't know a thing about this knife, you understand?” he told him softly. “Take your apron and gloves and hairnet off.”

“Brendan? What are they gonna do to him?” Ste asked as he had his apron and gloves taken away from him and dumped on the floor.

Brendan was unable to keep still. “I don't know – and I wasn't staying to find out.”

“What's happened in the past?”

“All sorts.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know, Steven! I don't know! I swear I'm never usually there when they do it!” He stopped moving around and looked Ste up and down. He crossed the room over to him and rested a hand on either side of Ste's face. “Are you okay? Are you okay?”

Ste swallowed hard, and he nodded. Brendan pulled him into a tight hug, and Ste clung back. He could hear Brendan murmuring something, and it sounded like it was comforting even though Ste couldn't properly make out what he was saying. “I love you, Brendan,” he said. “I'm sorry. I love you.”

“It's okay,” Brendan shakily assured him. “It's gonna be okay. Now listen:” He pulled out of the hug to grasp Ste's shoulders and look him firmly in the eye. “We were skiving off work to have sex, okay?”

Ste nodded. “Yeah … we … we weren't even there.”

Brendan closed his eyes with relief, and rested their foreheads together. “We were here. We were together. We sneaked out during the guard rotation.”

Ste nodded again, then sank down onto Brendan's bed. “Is it always like this?” he asked. “Is it?”

Brendan sat next to him, put an arm around his shoulders and then pulled him in close. “Pretty much.”

“I thought …. I … I th-thought...” Ste couldn't help letting a few tears out.

“I know, Steven. I know.” Brendan's voice was calm and reassuring. “It's okay. You're not going to be here long. You can go home soon.”

The yelling downstairs increased momentarily to a deafening level, then died away. Ste could hear an ambulance pulling up outside in the courtyard below his cell, sirens blazing. Everybody was being ordered back to their cells, and Brendan opened the door to stand on the walkway outside to look interested in what was going on. After a moment or so, Ste joined him, leaning on the barrier.

“What do you think they did to him?” he asked.

Brendan shrugged. “Something painful.”

“It's all my fault.”

Brendan didn't reply. There was no point to him denying it. 

“I'm sorry,” Ste said.

“Don't. There's nothing to be done now. You move on.”

Gates were clanging and officials were shouting. “I don't know if I can,” Ste admitted. “I … I can't... I just wanted to help.”

“We all make mistakes, Steven. We all think we can change the way things are when we first get inside. But you can't. Outside, people matter. Inside, they don't. Nobody has much to lose here. What's a few extra years on the end of a one hundred year sentence?”

Ste swallowed and bit his lip. “How long is your sentence?” he asked.

Brendan didn't reply for a long moment. “Let's go inside,” he eventually said. Ste nodded and followed him back in. He didn't know why he'd asked. He knew Brendan would never be allowed outside these fences again. 

That night, Ste lay on his back staring at the ceiling, and for once, Brendan was unable to sleep, too. He didn't say anything, just lay on his side next to Ste, trailing fingers gently up and down Ste's chest. It was calming. Ste sighed softly, and turned his head to face Brendan. He didn't really know what to say, so kissed him instead. 

Brendan kissed him back a little tentatively, but relaxed into it. It was gentle and calm, and neither of them rushed or grabbed. They broke apart, and Ste rested his forehead against Brendan's. “I'm scared,” he admitted.

“Me too,” Brendan very quietly replied. 

“I want to go home,” he sniffed.

Brendan tensed minutely, but didn't withdraw from their embrace. “Me too,” he repeated. 

Ste raised his head. “S-sorry, that was … that was really insensitive.”

Brendan chuckled, and brushed Ste's fringe out of his eyes. “It's okay.” He kissed Ste's forehead. “We should sleep. Only the guilty lie awake.”

“ _That_ was insensitive.”

“Then we're even.” Brendan settled himself down, on his back, pulling Ste's arm so that Ste could rest a head on his shoulder and hold him close. He rested his other hand on the back of Ste's head, gently stroking his hair with his fingers.

Ste yawned. “I see what you're doing,” he said, the hair-stroking making him feel sleepy. 

“Works with puppies. Works with you.”

Ste yawned again. “Shut up.”

He fell asleep first.


End file.
